Awake and Sing
by A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!" - Mags wasn't always 80 years old. Once, she was The Girl With The Awl. Rated for general HG violence.
1. Reaping

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,409

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** So, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of Hunger Games fanfiction in honor of the film release and while I love some Katniss/Peeta as much as the next kid, I have been greatly disappointed in the lack of Mags-centric fics. Seriously guys, how is there not more of that awesome old lady that got Finnick out of his Games alive and willing sacrificed herself for the cause? As usual, I'm also avoiding a Historical Styles paper on mid-20th Century architecture so what better way to procrastinate than get in some fanfiction.

Be aware: I'm using a different perspective and trying out a more clipped version of my usual style in a lame attempt at using a _Hunger Games_ style voice. Additionally, all I was able to find on District 4 was that it's all about fishing and by the sea which we all well know. Since there wasn't anything more specific than this, I went ahead with the assumption that it's on the newly risen Gulf Coast. I also went the theory that they are not yet so far removed from the pre-Panem days and so some of the names are still more like we know them today.

Reviews are loved; I'd love to hear what you think. = )

_**1 – Reaping**_

The weather is awful this morning, but it doesn't matter.

Gram has me up as usual. Well before dawn, I know, but it's hard to tell with the dark of the storm clouds outside. She doesn't say anything about today and neither do I.

Instead, we begin breakfast like it's any other day. Heating up last night's crawfish stew. Patting out fresh flatbread, the only thing the grain rations are good for besides gruel. Talking about silly things like how much the twins snore and did I see the new dress Hilly Vincour was wearing yesterday? Loud enough to wake the dead, I suspect and Hilly doesn't need to be showing off that sort of frivolity when there are children in town who haven't so much as a minnow to eat in days.

We don't talk about this morning.

We don't say anything about the Capitol train that arrived last night or the cameras in the square.

And we certainly don't mention that this year, the Benoit family will have four names in the glass lottery balls.

Four names, several times over.

Danny, my older brother is eighteen and took out tessera. His name's in 49 times. I'm sixteen and took tessera too – that's 35 slips with my name on them. We didn't let the twins take anything, so that's only a slip each since it's their first year.

Of course, it only takes one to be a Tribute. Only one to go to the Games.

That's what they call them – _games_. Like it's tons of good-natured fun. A show of national unity. A celebration of prosperity.

It isn't.

Gram tells us sometimes about Before. Before the Dark Days, even before districts and capitols. When she was a little girl and lived in a place far north of here called Missouri. They had games then too, she says. The strongest and the bravest from all over would compete in actual _games, _like footraces and swimming matches for the honor of their homes.

The Games are not like those in the Before.

Our Games only have one victor and no one, at least in District 4, believes it's an honor, no matter how many times the Capitol reels tell us so. Competing in the Games, getting your name pulled out of those glass balls, is not an honor.

It's a death sentence.

There's a reason the older children don't even call it the Lottery anymore. They call it the Reaping. Where the Grim Reaper can have a pick of us all.

It's supposed to be that way. Awful. Frightening. Final. To show all the parents in Panem how wrong they were to ever question the Capitol's strength and power. And to make them pay with their children's blood for disloyalty.

"Margaret Katherine! You're burning that bread!" Gram swats my shoulder with the back of her wooden spoon and I hastily pull the slightly blackened disk of flatbread out of the pan. She doesn't even scold me or demand to know where my head is. Like she would on a normal day. Instead, Gram huffs and waddles out onto the covered porch where Danny and the twins sleep.

While I carefully monitor the next batch of flatbread, I can hear her over the relentless drum of rain on our tin roof. Poking and prodding my brothers out of the hammocks they string up between the supports and the house. They're probably not soaked from the rain. Mosquito netting that we've tacked up around the porch to make it a little more like inside catches a lot of the rain. But I'm still not sure how the thunder or the howl of the wind hasn't woken them yet.

"Y'all get on up! Lazy boys!" There are the collective groans and a few smacks of the wooden spoon, muffled on the canvas of their hammocks. "Maggie's been up all morning and what are you doing? Sleeping in!" Gram doesn't offer any threats. No promises of retribution.

That's how you can tell she's worried about us.

I don't blame her. I'm rather worried my own self.

It's Danny's last year in, which is something of a relief. Next year he'll be able to be out on the trawler with Grandfather full time. That's extra money, extra _food_, without tessera. Without the near-guarantee of an early death. And even though the odds are certainly _not_ in his favor, if there is anyone with half a chance the Games, it's Danny.

Danny is handsome. I don't think so. He _is_ my brother. But every other girl in town is in love with him. I know because I'm the one asked to deliver love notes and provide details of his social life for his many admirers. Danny is strong. Even though he's still got to be in school like the rest of us, he spends most of his time on the trawler with Grandfather and can easily haul in full loads without help. Danny is smart. He's the cleverest person I know and good at absolutely everything. Knots and nets, hooks, even spear fishing, you name it and Danny will figure out a way to do it.

The Capitol loves handsome Tributes. Even more, they love handsome and strong Tributes with clever streaks. Sponsors line up to help them come out victorious.

The twins though . . .

It's a good thing they've only one slip apiece because Willie and Jackie wouldn't stand a chance.

They're cute and clever like Danny. Little and fast, that's in their advantage too. But they work as a team. They've always worked as a team. At school, on homework. On the trawler, making nets and cleaning the day's haul. At home, scrounging up herbs and other edible plants when food's short. Even if they're working on new and exciting acts of mischief. Jackie might be the instigator and Willie might be the one to carry it out, but it still takes two. They're useless alone and if either one is ever chosen as Tribute, it will destroy them both.

And then there's me.

I don't have to worry about missing half my team if I get chosen, but I certainly don't have half a chance of making it out alive.

I am not pretty or cute. My hair didn't stay the color of the finest sand, like my brothers. Instead it's something drab, somewhere between straw and potato and curly. Only not soft loopy curls that only ungrateful men get, but more like what Gram calls ten thousand cowlicks. My eyes aren't the color of the best sky like the boys either. They're more like heavy fog. My skin doesn't tan. It burns and blisters. I'm too short and too scrawny to ever be mistaken for strong.

I like to think I'm clever, at least. Since Gram's eyes have gotten bad, I've been doing the ledgers on the trawler proceeds and Grandfather says I'm the best weaver in the district. But baskets and sums are hardly survival skills and not nearly enough to make up for how plain I'd be in sponsors eyes.

So all we can do is what we always do. Wear what Gram calls our Sunday best, comb our hair and hope the names that come out of those glass balls belong no one we know. It's not a good plan but it's the only one we've got.

"Nice hair-do, Magpie." Danny tugs on one of the scraps of cloth Gram rolled into my hair last night in greeting. This is her attempt to make my normal cowlicks more like the boys' lovely curls. I get the feeling that given the rain, it won't matter much in a few hours.

"Well," I say. "We _are_ going to be on television this morning." I remind him. "We have to look our best for the Capitol."

"Oh, yes. I forgot," Danny says. "Don't want to offend the viewing audience's delicate sensibilities by looking like real people." We laugh, but then Gram is back in the kitchen with the twins trailing in sleepily after her. She gives Danny a swat on the back of his head with her spoon.

"Don't you be talking like that!" Gram scolds. "You sit down, now. Have you some breakfast. Your sister's gone to all the trouble to make you fresh bread."

"Must have been a whole lot of trouble." Jackie yawns. He and Willie have fallen into their chairs at the table, still in a sleepy haze. "Look burnt to me." He sends me one of his smooth smiles. Both of the twins are going to be heartbreakers in a few years. Everyone says so. But of the two of them, Jackie's the charmer. Willie will win friends and little girls' hearts by being quiet and clever with a side of mischief. But Jackie's got the silver tongue and the easy smile and never misses an opportunity to tease.

"Made those special for you, Jackie." I say, offering him one of the blackened breads. "Added just the right amount of ash – just the way you like it." Jackie makes a face and Willie snickers.

"Spoiled rotten, all of you. Turning your nose up at a meal." Gram snorts. Shakes her head like she can't believe use. But she takes the burnt flatbread from my hand and places it on her own plate. Normally, she'd make _me_ eat the blackened thing myself, for wasting food. But today isn't normal. "Your granddaddy ruined you." Gram grumbles at us, dishing out the crawfish as I place the rest of the flatbreads on a napkin in the center of our table.

"Don't think of it so much as ruined, Soph!" Grandfather calls from the boys' sleeping porch. The rain on the tin roof has gotten so loud I hadn't heard him come in. "Think of it as _improved_!" He calls cheerily over the rain and the howl of the wind.

"You track mud in on my floors and we'll just _talk_ about improvements, Mr. Benoit!" Gram warns. Grandfather laughs and kicks off his boots before opening the screen door to the kitchen. More than fifty years with Gram has taught Grandfather when to ignore her bristling.

"Ah, _mes chéris_," Grandfather chuckles and takes a seat next to Willie at the end of the table. Grandfather's worried too. He's smiling but he's using an old language now. One from his boyhood. One from Before. It always means he's particularly emotional. "What would I do without you?"

We don't talk about the Lottery all through breakfast. Instead, Grandfather tells us about what a mess the storm has made of the docks. All the work we'll have to do to clean up before any of the boats are seaworthy again. Gram scolds him for going out at all in this weather. Danny tears up his bread so that it looks like a pair of fangs. Makes faces at the twins, who laugh their heads off. Like nothing's the matter, but the rain.

After breakfast, we can't pretend to be normal anymore. They stagger the Lotteries by district, so people in the Capitol can watch all of them if they choose. District 4's is always mid-morning. Too early for a proper day off. Too late to get in a morning's work. All we can do is get ready.

Gram put the twins to washing dishes while Danny and I haul in the tub. It's a big old tin thing that we left outside last night when the rain started. Easier to collect the warm summer rain water than heat up a whole tub of pump water. I had my bath last night so that Gram could roll my hair. This morning it's the boys' turn.

While they sponge off layers of salt, Gram has me sit at the table while she carefully unrolls my hair. The bits of cloth admittedly have left my hair in loose loops at the ends. But the rain and the humidity are all ready having an affect. The curls have sort of seized up so the whole mess of my hair hangs around my chin in a loopy mess like a gull's nest.

The boys think this hilarious.

"Look!" Danny points out. He's finished his own bath and is scrubbing at the ring around Willie's neck. "A nest for the Magpie!" Willie snickers again and Jackie laughs. This might vex me on a different day, but not today. The dread has all ready started rising in my belly.

"Perfect for Kittiwake!" Jackie laughs. The boys find it funny that there is a bird to be found in both of my names. Neither one a particularly lovely bird either.

"Better than that rats' nest in your hair," I remind Jackie. It was easier this morning, but I still smile. Point to the tangled mess he's made trying to get the salt out of his curls. Gram clicks her tongue at the mess of us.

"Dress!" She orders me up the ladder to the small loft where I sleep. It's tight, where we keep nets to be repaired and the sea chest with our nicer clothes. I have a mat against the wall that's my bed because the covered porch only sleeps three, less the weight of all our hammocks pull down the supports.

"The white one!" Gram reminds me from below as she bustles the boys out of their baths and into clean clothes. She didn't have to. I only have the one nice dress. It's the same one I've worn every year since I qualified for the Lottery. Canvas, from the ruined sails of Grandfather's skiff with the neat little lace collar Gram tied. It used to be long and loose. Past my knees and baggy in the top. Now, the hem is only just above my knees and the top fits tighter. It had been Gram's grand plan. Her hope to never make another Lottery dress. I cooperated. In the last four years, I've grown only a few inches and barely filled out. When I first wore it, it looked silly. Now it looks almost nice. The whole look of course is ruined by the ridiculousness of my hair. The black rubber rain boots I have to wear to slosh up the muddy road into town. Regardless, the whole thing might yet make it to my last Lottery year.

We only have one umbrella, which the twins share. They will stand together with the other Twelves when the names are pulled. Danny and I will stand alone, with the Eighteens and Sixteens respectively. We wear the rain slickers. The ones Grandfather keeps on both the trawler and his skiff in case of a storm.

Of course, we aren't the only ones. The square is all ready half full when we arrive, soaking from our walk. Everyone from school. From town. From up the shore. Some carry umbrellas like the twins. Old and worn. Most wear the same shapeless slickers like ours.

The sign-in is faster than I remember. My name is on the books and I'm saying good-bye to everyone before I know it. I have a feeling it has to do with the weather. Capitol people hate discomfort. Driving rain and howling wind is certainly not pleasant when you're standing in it. To that end, there's a tent over the Peacekeepers taking our names. Over the cameramen and the little stage in front the Justice Building too.

There aren't tents for the people of District 4.

We stand out in our sections. Twelves to Eighteens, before the stage. Girls on the right, boys on the left. Parents and everyone else around the square. Everyone looks wet. No one looks happy.

"Maggie!" It's Fillipa. I can see her standing with the other Sixteen girls as I approach. She is looking half-drowned this morning. Her umbrella seems to have blown inside out once or twice. Her own dress is soaked through. Her brown hair plastered to her face, out of whatever braid she'd had it in this morning.

"Here Fil," I say, taking her hand.

"I heard you say good-bye to your grandmother." She tells me. Fillipa may be blind, but her hearing is impeccable. Even over the roar of the rain.

"She's worried." I explain.

"So is my father." She agrees. "I don't even take tessera and he's upset." I'm not the least bit surprised. Fillipa is impossible not to love. She is sweet and clever and so terribly sincere. She is the best friend I know.

Fillipa also stands less of a chance of coming out alive than the rest of us if she is picked.

"_I'm_ upset." I confide. "Willie and Jackie are in this year."

"You didn't let them take-?" Fillipa sounds like she can't believe I'd let them do such a thing as take tessera.

"Of course not." I say. "But it only takes once."

"How many times are you in?" She asks me quietly. There's a waver in her voice. Almost like she doesn't want to know.

"More than I'd care to think about." I admit. She opens her mouth to say more. The fanfare that announces the arrival of Minerva Holmes interrupts.

Minerva Holmes has been the District 4 spokeswoman and Tribute chaperone since the Games began. She looks exactly the same as she did ten years ago. Her skin is still a proper flesh tone. Not like some of the other Capitol people, with their dyed skin in unnatural colors. But it's still pinched, almost stretched over her face so that she looks surprised all the time. Her brown eyes still bug out which doesn't help to weather that surprised look. Her hair is still a wig and still a shock of red. Not a regular orange-red, but blood red, contrasting with the dark of her skin. And of course, she still wears a sharp pantsuit, still red to match her hair. When I was small, I was afraid of her. She was too tall. Too sharp. Too unreal.

Now I'm afraid of her for a whole different reason.

Minerva introduces herself unnecessarily. She smiles like this is not the most dreadful day of the year. Waves like we're glad to see her. Welcomes the guests behind her on the stage. The Mayor Vincour. The Head Peacekeeper Donnelson. Thom Argon, District 4's only living Victor and Tribute Mentor. Mayor Vincour is looking tired and Donnelson's looking for a fight. Thom Argon is looking so handsome that even though it's reaping day some of the girls around us giggle.

The anthem of Panem plays now. When it's finished, Minerva has the mayor read from the Treaty of Treason. To remind us why we're here. Even he looks a bit nauseous at the words. Minerva pretends she doesn't notice.

When the mayor stutters through the end of the treaty, Minerva thanks him. Announces a treat. A propo reel runs on the screens above the veranda, in honor of the 10th anniversary of the Games. The echo of the President's voice talking about the glory of Panem rings out of the intercom system. It's supposed to be inspiring. Uplifting. Make us feel honored to die.

Even with the rain to obscure it, it still makes me feel ill. I've started shaking with worry at some point too. The Capitol's dragging things out this year. A special torment. As though sending two of your children off to die wasn't enough, they plan to make us wait to see which ones. Fillipa squeezes my hand to let me know she's worried too. I squeeze back.

Finally, _finally_, the film finishes with another round of the anthem. The Treaty read, the propo run, Minerva Holmes steps up to table. The table with two giant glass balls, loaded with tiny scraps of paper that wait for her.

"And now! The moment we've all been waiting for!" She calls out in her singsong Capitol voice. "Ladies first!" At least she doesn't make a show of digging around in the names. In years past, when they recap all the Lotteries in all the Districts at the end of the day, I've seen some of the other spokespeople. Some of them are terribly dramatic. They are from the Capitol. I should expect it. But they go _on_ and _on_. Take ages to pull a single name. Minerva spares us this. Instead, she stirs the ball once. Snatches up a single name.

She unfolds the little piece of paper and reads, "Margaret Benoit!"


	2. Train

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,997

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I apologize for the slow start. I'm still looking for a beta so there has been very little content editing, just some general proofing. If anyone's interested in betaing for me, I'd certainly love the input.

Otherwise, Mags has a bit of a 'false start' stammer, meaning she repeats sounds at the beginning of words and phrases, particularly when under severe stress or in times of anxiety. I had to share that. You have no idea how much time I spent reading up on communication disorders this afternoon.

Let me know what you think. = )

_**2 – Train**_

_Minerva has said my name wron_g is all I can think. _You don't hear the 't' at the end. _Like every schoolteacher I've ever had, she has said my name wrong_._ Someone, Mayor Vincour, I think because my brain is still processing consequences of Minerva Holmes saying my name at all, corrects her.

"Oh! Margaret _Benoit_!" She corrects herself. "My mistake! Come on then, Margaret!"

It's unmistakable now.

_My_ name has come out of the Lottery.

The anxiety in my belly is gone. Replaced by a dreadful numbing terror. I'm shaking again. So badly I can feel it in my bones. I can hardly form any sort of coherent thought. None that matter anyway.

Things happen around me.

Fillipa is hugging me. The other Sixteen girls have taken a step away. Distancing themselves. A pair of Peacekeepers appear to lead me to the stage. The Justice Building. Vaguely I'm aware of Minerva welcoming me to the stage, the Tribute from District 4. The thousands of eyes of District 4 and the Capitol audience on _me_.

It doesn't feel real.

_I am going to my death and it doesn't even feel real_.

From the stage, I can see my brothers. Gram and Grandfather. Jackie looks on the verge of tears. Willie is almost there too. Danny's face is stony. Grandfather has his head in his hand. Gram looks nothing but angry.

I can't even imagine how I look.

"Gentlemen!" Minerva trills. There's a paper in her hands again. She calls out, "Flynn Moses!"

Flynn Moses. I know him, but only just. He's one of the bigger boys in the year above me. Tall. Strong. Got a dozen brothers and sisters, older and younger. His father's a lobsterman. Up the coast.

_He'll have to kill me_, I think as he makes his way to the stage because there is no way I'd ever be able to take on all that muscle and live.

"Shake hands now!" Minerva encourages us. Flynn and I shake dutifully. He seems to be in about as much shock as I am. "Ladies and gentlemen, this year's District 4 Tributes! Margaret Benoit and Flynn Moses!" Minerva calls. No one applauds. The anthem plays anyway. We are led out of the rain into the Justice Building.

It strikes me that I've never actually been inside the Justice Building before. It's like nothing I've ever seen. Thick carpeting. Enormous frescos on the walls and ceiling. Gold everywhere. Beautiful. A thousand leagues from anything else in District 4.

I should be impressed. I should marvel. But this is the last place I'll ever see my family. I don't have time to be impressed.

It all feels real now. Every nightmare I've ever had about the Lottery ends on the stage with the presentation of the Tributes. I know I never could dream up such an ostentatious place as the Justice Building.

They stick me in a chamber off the main hall. It's small, but there are still sprawling paintings of the sea across the walls and the ceiling. Even the paint smells fresh. I don't know where they take Flynn. The scared, selfish part of me doesn't even care where they've taken him.

"Family first." A Peacekeeper tells me. The door closes. I try to compose myself. Squash the all-consuming dread that rattles my bones. I'm not worried about my family without me. Gram is the toughest person I know. She'll hold them together. She did it after Papa died. And when she can't anymore, Danny will. It won't be easy. It isn't certainly fair. But no one should starve, even without my tessera rations.

And then the door opens again and there's Gram and Grandfather. The boys. The twins are crying now and Grandfather is only just holding back. I try to garble out something coherent. Meaningful. Something so that they'll know how important they are. How they can get through this. That they can't let this ruin them. All that comes out is a sob and a whole lot of stammering.

Gram manages to bring me to my senses with a good smack across the cheek. It stings. It's enough. I pull myself together, if only to at least pretend to be brave.

"Now you listen here, Margaret Katherine. You listen real good, little girl. We ain't got much time." She says. Her finger is in my face. Like this is could be any other scolding. Rather than the last day I ever see her. "Don't you dare let them change you. You stay Margaret Katherine Benoit of District 4, you hear me? If you let them change you, then they'll have won again." She tells me. "Your papa didn't die so they could turn you into their plaything."

For a moment, I forget where we are. Why we're here. I'm shocked.

Gram does not talk about Papa. Grandfather will sometimes. Around our birthdays maybe. To tell us how proud Papa would have been of us. But Gram _never_ mentions Papa. Certainly never the Rebellion. Really anything remotely related to his death. The boys are stunned too, because they fall back a little.

"Do you hear me?" I stutter a poor excuse for assent. The stammer I banished as a child has come back with a vengeance. The general stress of Lottery Day compounded with the fact that I have actually been _chosen_ has me tripping over words like I'm five years old all over again. It's not good enough for Gram. "What was that?"

"Y-y-yes ma'am." I get out. Gram nods, certain I've gotten her message. Pats my stinging cheek where she struck me. Steps back for Grandfather to get in a word.

Grandfather smiles sadly. Gives me a hug. Kisses my forehead. Presses his little gold chain into my hand. The one with the cross like the mast and sails of a ship. "Hold onto this for me." He says with another hug. "Be brave, little bird."

The twins have recovered from Gram's outburst. There's more crying and they cling to my arms like they did when we were small. Willie begs me to win. Jackie says he knows I will. I don't tell them I haven't a chance. Instead, I try to put up a brave face for them and watch my stammer. Tell them to behave. Listen to Danny. Be careful on the trawler. They buy it.

"D-Don't ever let Willie or Jackie take tessera." I tell Danny when he hugs me. "N-Never."

"Never, Magpie." He agrees.

"A-And w-when . . ." I have to pause a moment. It's almost too horrible to say and my voice is having quite a time working anyway. "D-D-Don't let them watch. None of them. P-P-Promise me you won't let them see me d-die."

"I promise Magpie." There's a waver in Danny's voice now too and it nearly undoes me again. But then the Peacekeepers are back and my family is herded away for the last time.

"Remember what I told you, Margaret Katherine!" Gram calls back. "If you die, you die Maggie. If you win, you best be coming home as yourself, little girl." She warns. And then they're gone and I'm left with Grandfather's chain and the frescos.

They send in Fillipa next.

"I-I-I told you I was in there more times than I cared to think about." I say. The words come in a bit of a rush. Like a joke. Fillipa doesn't smile.

"It only takes one." She echoes, sitting down beside me. "You will come back." She says after a moment. It isn't a request like Willie's. It's an order. "You'll make them love you and then you'll come back." And then she's hugging me again and we're snuffling and then there are the Peacekeepers again.

No one else come to see me.

Just Minerva Holmes, handing me a handkerchief. Bustling me off to the train station. I can still feel tears burning in my eyes. My hands are still shaking. At the very least I've composed myself enough to follow her instructions.

Flynn's at the station too, looking cold and distant. Thom Argon, the Victor and Mentor, is with him, looking his usual charming self. Cameras have followed us the whole way. Reporters shout questions to us. Flashbulbs go off. Even though the rain is still coming down in torrents, Thom and Minerva smile and wave to them and hurry us into the train.

And then there's the warm and dry of the train car and the door slides shut on District 4 for the last time.

"Well!" Minerva announces. She's handing her umbrella to a Capitol attendant by the door. Other Capitol attendants appear to take our dripping coats. "That was certainly exciting! First year we've ever braved a hurricane on Lottery Day!" She says brightly. Flynn looks like he wants to correct her. Hurricanes are _far_ worse than today's storm. But Minerva doesn't give him the chance. "How about something warm to drink then? Come, come!" She herds us deeper into the train car.

If possible, it's more extravagant than the Justice Building.

Everything is rich, with loud colors and intense detail. Like the Justice Building, it's still sea-themed. Like we'd forget where we came from without it. Blues and greens with crystal that shines like sun on the water. Soft fabrics whose names I don't know are everywhere.

A single curtain tie from this car could surely feed my family for a month.

"Sit down! Sit down!" Minerva encourages. She waves us into matching overstuffed armchairs. She's picked a sofa. Flynn and I sit uncomfortably. More Capitol attendants appear to present us with an array of teas, coffees and a sweet smelling drink they call hot chocolate. Flynn takes a coffee and Minerva picks a tea. I don't take anything. I can't trust myself to hold any cup of hot liquid steady. A scald is the last thing I need.

Thom Argon takes a coffee too and tosses himself down next to Minerva. Props his feet on the table for good measure. His smile for the cameras is gone. A nasty scowl is in its place. "Thom! Manners! And for goodness sake, cheer up!" She scolds.

It occurs to me that I have never seen Minerva Holmes look anything but cheerfully surprised. Thom Argon is always smiling devilishly. Away from the cameras, they've got nothing but matching snarls for each other.

"Got a good reason for me, Minnie?" Thom asks her. His smile is decidedly not devilish or charming. It's cold and insincere. This is not the Thom Argon I'm used too.

Before his Games, he was in Danny's year at school. He and his father lived down the coast from us. Farther out from the docks in a ramshackle house shabbier than even ours. He'd walk to school with us. Make jokes with Danny. Tell the twins all sorts of fantastical stories since they were still small enough to believe anything. Tease me. His name was called for the Games three years ago. He was all ready handsome then. His hair like wet sand and his eyes like a stormy sea. Sharp features. Clever to boot. Sponsors had adored him. His Arena had been an island filled with all manner of poisonous plants and hungry beasts. He spear fished his dinners and his competition. Ended up crowned District 4's first Victor.

Since then, since he and his father moved up the shore, to the Victor's Beach and the grand homes the Capitol had built there for our winners, I have only ever seen him on television. Occasionally in town. But always, always with a perfect smile on his face. Always charming. Always polite. The Capitol and the cameras love him like that.

Thom Argon is _not_ polite to Minerva Holmes.

"We might have us another winner this year!" I notice Minerva looks pointedly at Flynn when she says this. I don't hold it against her. With his overall mass and muscle from hauling up lobster traps, he's double the size of me. I would have put money on him too.

"That right?" Thom does not sound at all like he believes her or cares. "Think you can win, Moses?" He asks Flynn. Flynn shrugs.

"Good a chance as any I suppose." He says.

"Can you kill her?" Thom asks him. He nods at me. "Can you even let the others kill her, knowing everyone from home is watching?" Now Thom's just being mean. I'm not used to this part of Thom Argon either. I've heard him tease. Poke fun. But never mean. Never spiteful. I don't like it.

"Well, I –" Flynn flounders. I don't blame him. We both know it has to happen. For one of us to live, the other and twenty-two of our fellow Tributes have to die. It's just a lot more difficult to say to the other's face.

"You'll have to do better than that." Thom sneers. "Hesitations get you killed."

"A-A-Aren't you s-s-supposed to help us?" I ask. My voice shakes. I'm stuttering again. More today than I have in years. But given the events of this morning, I'm a little bit proud I can even get this out.

"Am I not being helpful, _M-M-Margaret_?" Thom asks me. He mimics my stammer. He did that once before. Long before his Games. Before _any_ Games. Papa had only just died. I couldn't speak without tripping over every word. Thom had never heard anyone fail so miserably at basic communication. He'd thought it was funny. Danny had punched him. Thom didn't think it was funny after that. But Danny isn't here to hit him this time.

"N-Not t-terribly." I admit.

"Maybe you aren't paying enough attention." He snarls.

"You are positively ghastly this morning, Thom!" Minerva's had about enough of Thom's attitude. Somehow I get the feeling it's less that she's overly concerned for our morale and more embarrassed to be associated with his abysmal manners. Capitol people are _all_ about manners. "Why don't we go on and dress for lunch then?" She suggests. "Perhaps he'll be in a better mood with some food in him," And we are shooed away into different cars.

Sleeping cars.

The car I am led to is the size of our family's whole house, covered porch included. Still sea-themed, but things are softer here. Lighter. The colors less saturated with fewer things to break. Attendants appear and offer me a dry dress. It's white, like the one I'm wearing. But it's not canvas. It's linen. Hilly Vincour, the mayor's daughter, has dresses like this. Shoes are presented too. But not boots. _Shoes_. Almost slippers. Also white. I wonder at the fit of it all. Like they were made for me when surely this morning they couldn't have known which girl would be getting on the train.

Regardless, I change dutifully. Clasp Grandfather's chain around my neck so not to lose it. Fold my Lottery dress, which made it to my last Lottery year after all. Set my rubber boots aside. But I leave my hair.

It's still in its gull's nest. The curls have seized up even more since this morning and I know it looks absurd. But Gram did it for me. And I can't bring myself to comb it out.

In the hall, the attendants have gone. But Thom is there. Dressed in a fresh suit. Fighting to close the door between cars in wind. When it's closed and the howl of the wind muffled, he notices me again.

"M-Mr. Argon." I greet.

"M-Miss Benoit." He shoots back. His sour mood has not gone away even with the promise of a meal.

"Y-Y-You don't have to be so m-mean." I remind him. It's a pitiful retort. I sound five years old again. Even without the stutter.

"I really do." He tells me. "It's easier this way." I must look confused because he spares me the question. "If I don't like you, I don't have to care when you die." Thom continues and then I understand.

Thom is our only Victor. According to the rules, previous Victors must mentor incoming Tributes in their district. Districts without Victors are stuck with Capitol representatives. The Capitol reps are notorious useless. They want a good show as much as the rest of the Capitol. Regardless of the survival of their Tributes. A Victor with district ties would seem a superior choice. Experience in the Arena. District pride. Motivation to keep their Tributes alive.

Maybe it will work someday. When our Victors are proper adults. Maybe it all ready does in the Districts with older Victors. But it certainly doesn't work for Thom. He doesn't just send strangers' children into the Arena. He sends his classmates. His playmates. His _friends_. Off to their deaths.

That being said, the selfish part of me still hates that he's being so awful.

"Y-Y-You'll still have to look Danny in the eye. W-When I'm dead." I say, pleased there isn't too much of a waver in my voice. It's a low blow, of course. The selfish part gloats a little that I can hit this one nerve. "I-I-It might be easier if you can say you tried to h-help."

Thom looks for a moment like he might strike me. For saying something so awful. There's a rage that slips into his eyes. Like I've figured out his secret. But either it passes or he buries it and straightens up. "What do you think I can do exactly?" There's still a snarl in his voice. "I can't get you out alive."

"T-That's my job isn't it?" I say. I'm trying to be brave. Like Grandfather asked. To sound in control. Even I don't believe it. "B-But you do know what it will be like. T-That isn't nothing." Thom studies me a moment. He still looks angry. Spiteful. But there's something like curiosity too.

"Fine." Thom agrees. "But I make no promises to get you home, you got that?" I nod.

"I-I-I won't ask you to."


	3. Prep

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,331

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I apologize for the delay in updates. My real life took over briefly. Also, I'm still looking for a beta so there has been very little content editing, just general proofing. If anyone's interested in betaing for me, I'd certainly love the input.

Chapter fun facts: The prep team's names are corruptions of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, the Greek tragedians. Also, Mairead is one of the Gaelic forms of Margaret and Saoirse uses the Irish words for 'hello' (_dia duit_) and 'girl' (_cailín)_.

Let me know what you think. = )

_**3 – Prep**_

Meals with Thom Argon and Minerva Holmes are almost entertaining.

Thom and I may have come to some uneasy truce, but that does not mean he has the same agreement with anyone else. There are still no cameras around so the sniping and snarling between them has increased to a full out hostility. Minerva tries to talk about innocuous things. The schedule. The stylists. All the fancy and exciting things Flynn and I will get to see and do and wear in the Capitol.

Thom makes a point to bring every line of conversation back to the part where Flynn and I have to fight to the death. She can't even mention how wonderful the meal is. And it is wonderful. Rich and piled high. My family could eat for days on just the noodles alone. But then there's Thom reminding us to stuff our faces because in a week it could very well be nothing but what sponsors are generous enough to send. Which of course pulls a sneer out of Minerva. Always accompanied by a particularly nasty jab or two regarding his responsibilities to make sure sponsors _are_ generous.

Flynn looks he might like to punch Thom. If we weren't Tributes and Thom not a Victor, if we were at home, he probably _would_ punch him. But we aren't at home and Thom is technically the only liaison between us and any sponsors we might attract. Quite possibly the difference between our lives or deaths in the Arena. So Flynn controls himself and just glares at him instead. I'm fairly certain I'm not looking overly thrilled with him either.

Capitol attendants look unfazed at the whole meal. In fact, they look perfectly unsurprised all afternoon after the dishes are cleared away and we are left to listen as the fight rages on. Not at all bothered by endless sniping and snarling. As though they completely expected this. Knew Minerva wasn't always the cheery, surprised creature she is on camera. Knew Thom got bitter and mean. That the Tributes would get caught in the middle.

It isn't until nightfall that the horrible contest between Minerva and Thom finally ends. That's only because the attendants wave us off to our sleeping cars.

Only then am I finally alone for the first time since the Lottery. There is no one waiting on me. No one to meet. No Minerva. No Flynn. No Thom. No Capitol attendants. Most importantly, no fighting and no mention of my forthcoming demise. Which, of course, gives me hours without distraction, where my thoughts can be filled with nothing else.

Every possible way I could die of exposure or be brutally executed by twenty-three of my peers. Horrible memories of all the other violent deaths from the last ten years of Hunger Games. All of Panem watching. My family forced to sit on the little platform during the Victory Tour while the Capitol rubs my death in their faces.

I cry myself raw.

I have no illusions regarding my courage. It has always been clear that have little. Not like Gram or Danny. But I can usually stay busy enough to ignore whatever it is that worries me until it passes.

I can't stay busy here.

There are no clothes to wash or fish to dress. No ledgers to do or nets to mend. There is only me. And just the crippling fear of facing death while my family is forced to watch it happen. It's selfish, but I can't help but sob pitifully into the downy blankets. Muffle wails in the feathery pillows. Until there is nothing left and my whole being is just numb. A faint calm even settles over me.

Then I just feel foolish. I suppose I deserve such an indulgence as uncontrollable weeping. I _am_ going to be dead in a week or so. That doesn't make it worthwhile for me to just lie here like some tragic princess in one of Grandfather's fairy stories. Gram would be disappointed. The boys would make fun of me. Fillipa would call me a coward.

I'm not sure how long I've been crying. It's still dark out, no hints of dawn out the windows. It's clear I'll not be sleeping much tonight.

The attendants presented me with another overly luxurious dress for sleeping as I was bundled off to my car and I find a matching dressing gown hanging in the closet. There are slippers too. Fuzzy and warm. I ignore them and pull on my rubber boots instead. Like I'm a little girl again, sneaking out to watch the stars. They are absurd, the thick black rubber next to the silk and lace of the nightgown. I don't care. Instead, I test the doorknob. It doesn't resist and I am able to slip out into the corridor.

The train is long and dark. Car after car of extravagance I can see even in the gloom. It's almost obscene. Once, when Hilly Vincour turned ten, she invited all the girls from our class to her birthday party. It was supposed to be on the beach, but the Man-of-Wars were swarming. We ended up at her father's house instead. I had never seen anything like it. Everything was so _new_. So grand and unnecessary. The train puts the Mayor's house to shame.

In the very last car, it's still plush chairs and squishy carpet. But the back end of the car is gone. The roof and back wall and a bit of the sides have pulled away. Slotted in a row on the remaining ceiling and walls so you can see the stars.

It's not empty either.

Thom is sitting out in the open space as the wind howls into the car. The rain has stopped. The moon peeks out from breaks in the clouds but the stars are veiled. He sits in one of the squashy chairs. Smoking.

"What do you want?" He asks me harshly. Loudly, to be heard over the roar of the wind. I can't tell if he thinks I'm Minerva or an attendant or if he actually recognizes me. I don't answer the question. Just creep out to the open end of the car where he sits.

"Oh." He snorts when I'm nearer. "It's you." He _hadn't_ recognized me. "What do you want?" Thom asks again.

"I-I couldn't sleep." I admit. I'm proud my voice doesn't waver, but I'm surprised at how small and quiet I sound.

"Finished crying like a baby?" He asks me with a sneer. It's meant to be a taunt. To be mean and nasty. But I shrug.

"Y-Yes." I say. "What are _you_ doing here?" I ask. My voice is cooperating again. The numb calm that came with my uncontrollable weeping seems to have left me relaxed enough to speak almost normally again. Thom holds up his cigarette.

"Only place I can air out." He says. "Still had to disable the force field." He waves at the end of the car.

"Force field?" I echo.

"Supposed to run around the end of the car." He nods at an open seat and I take it. The wind still howls around us, whipping my hair into more of a tangle than it all ready is. "So we can see out but not throw ourselves off." Thom explains. "Keepsie showed me how."

"Who?" I ask.

"Keepsie – Victor from District 3." Thom answers with a drag on his cigarette. "Won last year."

"The girl with the landmines?" I recall. Last years Games had been particularly ugly. Brutal and long. Terribly bloody. In the end, it came down to a massively strong girl from 1, a stone-faced boy from 2 plus a vicious boy from 7 and the girl from 3. 3 had gotten one of the lowest scores in Games History, a two. She had only barely escaped the first bloodbath. Hidden herself first in the woods, then in the Cornucopia, digging up the landmines from the start disks and repurposing them into something no one had understood. At least until the end. One of the few food sources in the Arena had been a fruit tree. Everyone had been using it as a primary source. When it came down to the end, she'd hidden her newly repaired and miniaturized mines in the ripest fruit. All of the other remaining Tributes made the mistake of picking the freshest fruits. District 3 was crowned the winner.

"That's the one." Thom says with a drag on his cigarette. "She's a damned genius and I'm pretty sure she might actually be a sociopath, but she's a whole lot of fun." He admits. This admission surprises me. First, because in the last three years, since he and his father moved out of their shack, I only ever see Thom alone, either on television or out in town. He doesn't really talk to anyone for anything other than business or to answer questions. The idea of him having a friend, especially a mad one who quite literally blew away her competition, is curious. Second, of course, because it was offered freely and without any sort of mention of my imminent death or a cheap shot.

"I see." I say, not entirely sure how to respond.

"You'll meet her, I'm sure. She's mentoring this year." Thom continues. "I guarantee she'll show up at some point to say hello."

"Isn't that against the rules?" I ask. The actual Games have few rules. When you're in the Arena. But there are pages and pages of procedure governing preliminary events for Tributes, Mentors, chaperones, everyone that have been perfected in the last ten years.

"Probably. Keepsie likes to make her chaperone cry." He says. "She's very good at it. Usually makes Minnie turn a few shades of purple too."

"I see why you get along then," I say. We fall silent for a spell while Thom finishes off his cigarette.

"You know you're going to die, don't you?" He says suddenly.

"Y-yes," I admit. Because really, no matter how certain Fillipa is, how badly the twins want me to win, the odds are _not_ in my favor. A 96% chance of a grisly death. "Doesn't mean I won't try though." I admit.

"Good." Thom says. He stubs out his cigarette on the arm of his chair. It smolders into the upholstery. "That's not the Mags I remember." I glance up at the use of this variation on my name. Thom is the only one to ever have called me this. I have always been Maggie to everyone else. Margaret, if I'm in trouble.

"No?" I say. I can't read his face. There's only just enough moonlight to see it at all, much less his expression.

"Stammer's better." He observes. He's ignored my question.

"I've had some time to pull myself together." I explain.

"Might help you out – to have it." He muses.

"What?"

"Make you memorable." Thom continues. "Approachable. Human. Got to make them love you."

_Make them love you._ This is apparently some sort of mantra among Tribute entourages, because my prep team says these exact words the next morning when we arrive in the Capitol.

Our train had arrived to much fanfare just after breakfast. Once we'd cleared a long tunnel, the train had rolled into the Capitol's shining city where the citizenry was all ready out in the streets, cheering. It wasn't a friendly cheering. More like victorious cheering. The sort you hear at the execution of a particularly dastardly and hated criminal. But Flynn and I were instructed to pretend we didn't notice. To pretend they actually love us and aren't ready to watch us rip out each other's throats as a punishment for challenging them. To smile. Wave. We'd done so obediently from the windows until the train rolled to a stop on a guarded platform where cameras and Peacekeepers waited. That's when Minerva and Thom made themselves scarce and Flynn and I were shuttled into prep.

Prep takes place in sterile, almost medical sort of facility not far from the train platform. I have been assigned a trio of absurd looking people to clean me up. Make me presentable for my stylist. Introduced as Aeschy, Sophee and Dees, even though they're all dressed in flat white coats, they are all obviously Capitol citizens.

They've all gone with a theme. Oceans. For District 4.

Aeschy's hair, his full beard included, is in tight curls, and dyed a deep blue like the open sea. Little wooden sailing ships act as pins to keep stray curls out of his overly pale face. Sophee has her hair dyed a pinky purple with tendrils of translucent blues, falling into the flawless dark skin of her face. Like a jellyfish, she explains, however, it is clear she has never actually seen a real jellyfish because her whole look appears a bit solid. Dees has gone the farthest with the nautical theme. He's dyed his skin blue with painted elaborate depictions of marine life. Fish. Dolphins. Sharks. His head is shaved to his skin, but he sports a tight beard, dyed white and shaved down to look like tidal waves.

They look absurd.

But they are all actually quite kind, my prep team. They gush over me as I am dunked into bath after bath of sickly sweet smelling concoctions. Ooh and ah about all the wonderful things I'll get to see and wear in great detail as they scrub the salt from hair and file my nails to neat even squared ends. Tell me about the important people I'll get to meet as they forcibly remove every follicle of unwanted hair from my body. Titter about how jealous they are of the texture of my hair and the delicate bone structure of my face.

"We're going make them _love_ you!" Aeschy tells me while he paints a clear coat of polish on my freshly sculpted fingernails. "They won't forget this pretty face!"

"Sponsors will be falling over themselves to get you home." Dees agrees, patting the top of my head. He's been working a comb through the tangle that my hair has become after the many washes. I get the feeling that they say this sort of thing every year. To all their Tributes. To make us feel better. But they're just so _earnest_. All of them actually _believe_ it and I can't help but like them.

"Saoirse is a _genius_!" Sophee continues. She's giving my toes a coat of the same stuff Aeschy's put on my fingers. I haven't the faintest idea who 'Saoirse' might be, but they plow on like I'm on the same page.

"There's no one better than Saoirse at the Games." Dees explains as they finish the final touches to my look. It doesn't feel like much. Just a thin, shapeless robe. I get the feeling that despite the garment, I'm looking less like myself and more like the Capitol's idea of lovely. "She's an _artist_."

Saoirse, it turns out, is my stylist.

She is also like no one I have ever met before.

"_Dia duit_!" Saoirse trills when she flounces into the room. She waves to the prep team who wave back with big grins before leaving me alone with Saoirse. "Ah! There you are, my _cailín_!" She uses words I don't recognize. It occurs to me they are old words, in a language from Before. Like Grandfather uses. Except that they are clearly not in the same language as Grandfather's.

Saoirse is not sea-themed like the prep team. Her hair is the color of shined copper and it hasn't been obviously dyed so. It falls in sleek little bob to her chin. Her face isn't overly pale and freckled. She isn't limited to the same white coats as the prep team either. Instead, she wears a blue dress, the color of the sky, not the sea. It falls in fluffed layers to her knees. Hundreds of tiny buttons fasten down her back and the sleeves stop just over her shoulders in a layer of delicate lace Gram would love. Her shoes are just a shade darker than the pale of her skin but are impossibly high. She's so short this makes her only just my height. Strange because usually _no one_ over the age of twelve is my height and Saoirse has to be at least in her mid-twenties. Of course, given the Capitol, she could very well be older. She looks like a proper person, not a caricature. Even though she is so perfectly polished she has to have been raised in the Capitol.

But there's something about her that's just so different from anyone else I know. Something besides her appearance. Something devious and clever in the green of her eyes. Something just . . . Saoirse.

"I've got grand plans for you, Miss _Mairead_!" She says my name in the same roll as her greeting as she drops down into the rolling chair Aeschy abandoned. "Tonight's the opening ceremonies and _you_ are going to make a statement."

"Make them love me?" I supply.

"That too. The crowds do love shiny things and most of them will be too dense to get the metaphor." She shrugs and snorts a giggle. Like she loves the idea of a joke no one gets. "All that matters is that they remember you." Saoirse continues.

"Memorable means sponsors." I echo dutifully.

"Means you might come home." She's serious now. Her smiles and giggles are gone and there's something matter-of-fact about her. "The odds aren't in your favor, so to speak. But I want to bring you home." She tells me. There's something sad in her eyes. Like she knows this isn't all the fun the prep team and Minerva seem to think it is. That this whole event very likely culminates in my violent death. Like she knows it's her job to dress me up to send me there. She's not bitter about it like Thom. Not throwing it my face.

I can't help but adore her for it.

"Now!" Saoirse's grin is back. Mischief is glittering in her eyes. "The opening ceremonies!" Since the beginning of the Games, the Capitol has focused heavily on the main industry of each District. The costumes for the opening ceremonies of the Games always highlight these. District 4 is fishing which of course means more sea creatures. I'm not looking forward to being a fish.

"I've been working it over with Dio – Flynn's stylist." Saoirse says. "Tell me, darling. Do you know what a selkie is?" She asks me.

"No." I answer honestly.

"Shame." She says, but carries on. "They come from the old legends of the North. Old fishermen's tales from across the sea." Saoirse explains. "Selkies were seals who could shed their skins and walk as humans. Most selkie stories are of humans falling in love with beautiful selkies. The humans hide away the sealskins so that the selkies are forever trapped on land, never to be free again. Very romantic."

"So we're going as selkies?" I clarify. I can only imagine what this will look like as a costume.

"Caught forever as humans." Saoirse confirms. "Tragic and beautiful since the Capitol stole away your skins. Do you see?" She asks. I have to think a moment before I realize what exactly Saoirse is saying. The missing skins are not really skins, they are our _lives_. Our freedoms. A little reminder of what the Games actually mean to the rest of Panem.

That sounds dangerously sympathetic to the old rebel cause.

I must look mildly horrified because Saoirse smiles conspiratorially. "Tragic and beautiful." She repeats. There's a note of glee in her voice that tells me she remembers the world before the Games far better than I can. That she doesn't agree with this particular method of maintaining a society. But she doesn't go into detail. Instead, her smile gets bigger and she giggles again. "You're going to look _fantastic_!"


	4. Opening Ceremonies

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,326

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far – you have no idea how much I love seeing the hits tick up. I'd _especially_ like to thank those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece – those lovely little notifications of your support make me deliriously happy. ^.^

Chapter fun facts: The Caribbean monk seal, which Saoirse has based the selkie looks on, was last spotted in 1952 and declared extinct by NOAA in 2008. Saoirse and Dio's outfits are "Through the Looking Glass" themed. Cobb was named for my favorite ruthless killer, Jayne Cobb of Joss Whedon's 'Firefly'. Keepsie's name is the misinterpretation of the name of a city in New York by her post-apocalyptic parents.

Feedback would be most appreciated. = )

_**4 – Opening Ceremonies**_

Dees wasn't kidding when he'd called Saoirse an artist.

The selkie costumes are unbelievably beautiful. Both are in a gauzy fabric whose name I don't know. So fine they float in the breeze behind us as we walk. Both are a silvery grey. Expertly frayed at the ends, like we've worn them our whole lives in the open sea. Flynn's costume consists of merely trousers. Mine is more like a nightshift. Short sleeves with loose lace on the collar and the hems of the sleeves. Flynn's hair is carefully disheveled, but left its usual black color. Saoirse has decided the gull's nest my hair was on arrival was perfect for tonight's occasion and has had the prep team recreate a sleeker version of the look for me. Our skin has been paled down to near silver and dusted with a shimmering powder. Our eyes have accentuated so that they look larger. Sadder. _Monk seals_, Saoirse calls us. Who in ancient times lived in the oceans of District 4.

We stand in the line of chariots on the bottom floor of the prep center before we paraded out onto the streets from the opening ceremonies. Saoirse and Dio, Flynn's stylist, are there to make last minute adjustments to our looks. They're looking just as outrageous as Flynn and I are tonight. Saoirse's got on another pair of absurdly high shoes and a little green waistcoat embroidered with tiny teacups along the edges to go with her flouncy skirt. Dio's wearing a matching waistcoat and tight pants with an enormous top hat labeled 'In this style 10/6'. Surely this is supposed to mean something. Knowing Saoirse, ready to make a dangerous statement in her Tribute costumes, it's surely some sort of commentary. But I can't even begin to hazard a guess what their looks are supposed to mean.

Thom is there too. He looks like he's gotten the same treatment as Flynn and I. His hair is effortlessly tousled. The scruff of his beard expertly placed. His suit neatly pressed and his shoes shined. His manners have improved as well. He's still a bit on the grumpy side, but he's actually deemed to give us proper advice while the stylists touch up the selkie looks.

"Heads up. Above it all." Thom instructs. "Small smiles."

"Sad smiles!" Saoirse puts in.

"_Longing_ smiles!" Dio adds.

"And wave," Thom continues. "Remember we – "

"Look at you, Argon. _Mentoring._" Thom is interrupted by a snorting giggle. The speaker is a girl. She can't be much older than me, but she's obviously _not_ a Tribute. She wears a shining dress of pink satin, which drapes down one shoulder into an intricate bodice and a skirt like the one Saoirse wore this afternoon. Her hair is a stringy brown. Wispy tendrils, not curling knots like mine. Big brown eyes. Willowy limbs.

Last year's Victor. District 3.

"Keepsie." Thom greets. "Shouldn't you be doing the same?" She snorts another laugh, as though she can't quite refill her lungs after each giggle.

"What's the point? They're goners on Day One." She waves to the chariot beside us. A boy and girl dressed in coils of wire are being fussed over by a pair of stylists. Both of them look terrified. I can't tell if it's because we are minutes away from being paraded before all of Panem in absurd costumes. Or if because they have just spent the last twenty-four hours with Keepsie. "Programmers, both of them. Smart, but no application skills." She snorts again. She's mildly disconcerting, Keepsie. With her caviler sort of attitude. Speaking of her Tributes so coldly. I see immediately how Thom might think her a sociopath.

"They will be if you don't help them out." Thom reminds her. Flynn looks a little surprised that for once Thom Argon is playing the optimistic, supportive part in a conversation. I'm sure I do as well. Saoirse and Dio notice our looks and smirk at each other.

"What are they going to do? _Code_ District 2's Herculean offerings to death?" Keepsie snorts. "Even your little water nymph here could take them down." She waves at me.

"You won," Thom reminds her. "You sure aren't much to look at." There's more of Thom's usual sneer in his voice this time. Keepsie doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"But I'm a builder," She tells us. "I think outside the ones and the zeros. Coding can't get you out of the Arena with a _bang_." She snorts another giggle

"Mentor your own District, 3!" The order comes from the other side of us, down the row to where the District 7 Tributes are stuck in unfortunate leafy headdresses and skimpy bark tunics. This time the speaker is a man. I vaguely remember him from the early days of the Games. When I was very small. Second or Third Annual Hunger Games maybe. Older than both Thom and Keepsie, that's for sure. He stalks down the line. Past the Capitol Rep with the Victor-less District 5 and the mildly inebriated 6 Victor.

The District 7 Victor is enormous. Broad with a snarl on his face worthy of a Thom and Minerva off-camera showdown. He's in a suit too, starched and perfect. Short hair like autumn leaves, his goatee neatly groomed. He might even be called handsome, but there's something cold in his sharp face. Something harsh, wronged almost, in his scowl.

"What are you going to do about it, 7?" Keepsie smiles. Like she knows she's safe.

"Tributes can't fight each other, but there ain't nothing in the rule books about Mentors." 7 hisses. He towers over Keepsie. There's a funny look in his eyes too. Like he might just damn it all, toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to her own Tributes.

"Cobb, please." Thom sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He sounds tired of this little spectacle. Like he can't believe _he_ has to be the responsible one. The proper adult. Saoirse hears it too because she giggles and winks at me as she touches up the paint job around my eyes. The rest of us can't believe it either.

"Oh, please, Cobb." Keepsie smiles another confident smile. It's devious and taunting. The 7 Victor, Cobb, scowls even more deeply. "We both know you'd win where brute strength is involved. However, if you'd ever like to confidently eat anything but broth ever again, I'd suggest scuttling back to your little shrubs." She waves back down the the District 7 Tributes. "You never know what sort of things can get into that imported stuff. Vermin. Pests. _Incendiary devices_." Cobb frowns at the warning.

"Back to your Tributes, _Poughkeepsie_." Cobb hisses through his teeth. Keepsie looks mildly offended at the use of her complete first name. "Argon, your Tribs are looking scared. I'd see to that, boy."

"I'll do what I can, Cobb." Thom assures him. He sounds almost tired. Like he just can't wait for this whole thing to be over. Keepsie looks about to say something dreadful when a scream rings down the line of chariots.

It's a terrible scream. Like something from a nightmare or the Arena. It's coming from a Victor.

"Never stop! Won't wake up!" There is a crash as the District 11's stylist kit is thrown back into the staging area behind us. It lands with a crash and an explosion of make up and sewing tools. There's another shriek. A woman in yellow, the District's only Victor lashes out at the stylists. Her poor Tributes, both dressed like cereal grains shrink back into their chariot. "Wake up! Wake _up_!" She shrieks. From beside Thom, Keepsie snorts again.

"Crazy Daisy." She sighs as if this is completely normal. "Best make sure she doesn't take a pair of those scissors to her stylists, Cobb. _Again_." Cobb sighs too and shakes his head. His quarrel with Keepsie is forgotten as the woman, Daisy screams again and clutches at her head.

"See to your Tribs." Cobb orders one last time. The anger has gone from his voice. Like Keepsie and Thom's conversation is no longer a critical topic of discussion. He moves back down the row to where the District 12 Victor, a dark haired man with sad eyes tries to calm the now hysterical 11 Victor.

"Ten credits says they don't allow Mentors in the staging area next year." Keepsie pokes Thom's shoulder. Sighs and glances wistfully down the line of chariots. "Now, doesn't _that_ just inspire you to win?" Keepsie asks us. She shakes her head. Returns to her Tributes, who if possible, look more horrified than before as the shrieking continues.

"Don't listen to Keepsie." Thom orders us. He seems to be back on his mentoring track, but his voice is sharp. The snarl is creeping back into his face.

"What's wrong with her?" Flynn asks, nodding down the line of chariots. The District 11 Victor is still howling about waking up. Cobb has tackled her, pinned her body against his. They're both on their knees as District 12's Victor tries to wrest a pair of scissors from District 11's fingers. Capitol attendants have rushed forward with a med kit. A syringe is produced.

"Daisy's never been terribly stable." Thom answers stiffly. The sneer is back in his voice. The one from the train. But he keeps going with his instructions. "Isn't any of your business, Moses." He says. "Focus on the ceremonies. Smiles – sad or longing or whatever they've told you." Thom's flustered. Distracted by his fellow Victors. He waves at Saoirse and Dio. Saoirse smiles again.

"Wave," Saoirse instructs, repeating Thom's earlier command. She pats at my hair to make sure it bounces the way it ought to. "Gently. They'll eat it up."

"But _longingly_." Dio stresses. He gives Flynn's hair a final tousle. "_Sheer-she_!" Dio mangles the pronunciation of Saoirse's name, but it seems to have done so on purpose. He claps once as he inspects us. "Baby doll, we are _fierce_!" Dio giggles. Links his arm with Saoirse's and they step down from the chariot. I can hear the anthem of Panem playing out in the street and the District 1's chariot begins to move for the exit.

"Be brave," Saoirse tells us.

"Don't muck it up." Thom grumbles. His manners have slipped back to the abysmal place they were on the train. District 2's chariot has gone. Everyone backs away from ours. "And don't embarrass us." Thom orders before he leaves us to see to Daisy. The attendants have gotten the syringe into her neck, but she's still fighting Cobb as the sedative kicks in. Saoirse and Dio wave as our chariot follows the District 3's out onto the streets.

"You afraid?" Flynn asks. I must look terrified because he looks mildly concerned for me.

"Aren't you?" I ask him but if he gives an answer, I don't get to hear it. We crash into a wall of sound as we pass out of the prep center. Screams. Cheers. Shouts. The voice Julius Flickerman, the master of ceremonies for every Games since they began, echoes out over the din calling, "_District 4_!"

Another deafening roar goes up from the crowds packed along the streets. There are if possible, even more people than there were when we arrived this morning packed along the parade route. I spot my face on at least half a dozen screens along one side of the street and Flynn's on the opposite.

We look incredible.

Tragically beautiful. Lonesome and sad, like we've only just been torn from our beloved ocean homes. The lights and flashbulbs glitter off the shimmering dust on our skin. The fabric of our costumes trails out almost ethereally behind us.

Flynn waves next to me. I'm proud I can remember and can hold Dio's longing smile. The crowd loves us. Or rather they love our looks and can't wait until we slaughter each other. I can't imagine they recognize the significance of our costumes, but I can't blame them. We're stunning.

Our faces follow us to the City Circle. The lights have gotten so bright I can scarcely see the buildings or the crowd. There are more flashbulbs than ever. I have to force myself not to squint.

"Happy Hunger Games!" I hear the President's voice cut over the roar of the crowd's like Julius Flickerman's. I can't see them, nor do I hazard a look to check, but I assume the other Tributes have filed in behind us. The President continues his speech. It's much like the one from the propo reel at the Lottery. Thanking us for our courage. Our sacrifice for the peace of all Panem. I can just see the President in the shadow of his mansion. High above us on a platform. His face is blown up on a screen behind him. Like ours were on the ride from the prep center.

It's terrifying.

We aren't waving anymore, but I make sure my face is still the sad selkie face Saoirse wanted. A hint of Dio's longing smile. I can't let them see anything but the tragically lovely mask Saoirse has worked so hard to build for me. I know they're all watching. Back in District 4. Gram and Grandfather. Danny. Willie and Jackie. Even Fillipa. She may not actually see it, but I can't let her hear a broadcaster's announcement of my cowardice. She'd be ashamed. They'd all be ashamed.

But it's so dreadfully difficult. We stand before the man who has ordered our deaths. Look up at the man who devised the Games ten years ago at the end of the Rebellion and the Dark Days. When he was just an official responsible for drawing up the Treaty of Treason. This man is responsible for the brutal death of 207 children in peacetime Panem. Soon to be 230.

And I am very well going to be one of them.


	5. Training

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,772

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I'd like to again apologize for the delay. Real life took over. Again, I thank everyone who's read this far – you have no idea how much I love seeing the hits tick up. I'd _especially_ like to thank those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece – those lovely little notifications of your support make me deliriously happy. ^.^

Chapter Fun Facts: Saoirse uses the Irish Gaelic words for 'girl' (_cailín)_ and 'boy' (_buachaill_)

Feedback would be most appreciated. = )

_**5 – Training**_

After the speeches, we are driven to the Training Center.

Like everything else in the Capitol, it is beautiful. Luxurious. Modern. I'm still so rattled from standing before the man who demands my death that I can't bring myself to care.

Minerva meets us on the receiving floor of the Training Center. The other chaperones are there. Some of the stylists too and the Capitol Reps for the handful of districts without mentors. The actual mentors are all absent. We stumble out of our chariots, all 24 of us in varying degrees of absurd. The breezy chariot ride and the sweat from standing under thousands of spotlights have not treated the costumes well, especially those of us whose looks relied heavily on body paint. Even Saoirse and Dio's careful paint jobs show small streaks and cracks. Up close, it also becomes apparent how lucky we were in terms of stylists. Saoirse and Dio are not only lovely people, but they did _not_ elect to stick us in heavy coiled wire suits like the 3s or nothing but black body paint to represent coal like poor District 12.

But Minerva doesn't let us study our competition for long. She almost instantly begins gushing about the fabulous first impression we have just made. How clever our stylists are. All the sponsors who'll be interested in us. How beautiful we are all cleaned up.

I don't think Minerva got Saoirse's message either.

"Now!" Minerva titters as she herds us toward the bank of elevators. The other Tributes and chaperones are crowding them and it's hard to hear Minerva's instructions. "We'll watch the recaps and then it's straight to bed with both of you! Tomorrow begins training and we want you rested and ready!" She waves us into the first open one. The District 2 Tributes and one particularly sullen boy in the tree suit from 7 end up squashed in with us. Minerva has been lost in the push and waves us on as the elevator doors close.

Keepsie had called the 2s Herculean. I know what that means. Grandfather tells those stories from time to time out on the trawler. Stories about impossible heroes. Strong, great and deeply flawed. Keepsie hadn't been exaggerating.

District 2 is positively enormous.

They have to be Eighteens, both of them. Their stylists have them painted like stone statues. Every muscle is perfectly defined. Every angle of their faces. They're both impossibly beautiful.

"What are you supposed to be, 4?" Girl 2 sneers at me. She is tall and lean. Not scrawny or thin like me, but muscled and solid. Elegant features. Brown eyes. I can't even begin to imagine what colors her hair and her skin might be, she is so caked in paint, like white marble. "A drowning victim?"

"Selkies, actually." Flynn corrects her. I'm grateful he does. Given how rattled I am, I don't trust my voice to stay strong to do it myself and I certainly don't need to give them another excuse to think me weak.

"Selkies?" Boy 2 has at least fifty pounds on even Flynn. He's a darker marble color than she is and his eyes are darker. Harder. Colder. "Is that some District 4 word for 'drowned'?" The 2s laugh at their joke. Girl 2 looks triumphant and eager, like she can't wait to tear out our throats. Boy 2 has something else in his eyes when he watches me. Something greedy. I don't like it. I'm unbelievably grateful when we reach their floor before either Flynn or I have to reply.

"Hey." Boy 7 says when the 2s have gone, the doors hissing closed behind them. He's taken off his leafy headdress and carries with him. "At least you weren't sexy trees." He points to the bark patterned loin cloth and the body paint they've stuck him in. "My mother had to watch that." He snorts. I can't resist a small smile as the doors hiss open on our floor.

"I didn't even think about that." Flynn muses when we're out of the elevator, leaving Boy 7 to ride the rest of the way alone.

"W-W-What?" I ask. I am unbelievably grateful I didn't have to speak in from of the 2s, because my voice wobbles again.

"My mother had to watch me looking ready to seduce lonely fishermen's wives on national television." He says. I can't help but giggle.

"What?" I ask with a chuckle. The seriousness of his face and the complete foolishness of his observation are unexpectedly hilarious.

"Saoirse didn't tell you that part of the selkie myth?" He asks. I shake my head.

"J-Just the part about loosing the skins and being trapped with on land." I say.

"Yeah, well, there's all that, but male selkies are supposed to prey on lonely fishwives whose husbands are out at sea too. Break their hearts." He snorts. "Dio thought it _so_ romantic."

"W-Well," I say. "At least we weren't naked." I observe. "D-Did you see District 12? Nothing but coal dust. My grandfather would have had a heart attack right there in front of the Justice Building if we'd been naked."

"I can't imagine – " Flynn begins, but the elevator hisses open behind us. Minerva arrives. She's found Saoirse.

"You looked phenomenal, my _cailín_!" Saoirse applauds me. She tosses an arm around my shoulders. Kisses my cheek for good measure. "And you, me _buachaill_!" She tosses an arm around Flynn too. She is so small, even in her impractically high heels, she can't reach his shoulders and just gets his middle instead. She doesn't seem to care. "Just brilliant!"

"Sponsors will just line up for them!" Minerva agrees brightly. The elevators hiss open again.

It's Thom and Dio with a couple of stylists, the Tributes from 11 and the District 12 Victor. Dio waves to one of the stylists as he leaves. Thom shakes 12's hand.

"Shep." He tells the District 12 Victor by way of a goodbye. District 12, Shep, nods and Thom turns to us, the doors hissing closed behind him

"Oh. Thom! Weren't they simply _marvelous_?" Minerva gushes.

"Yeah, yeah, just great." Thom has clearly not been concerned with how the opening ceremonies went. He doesn't care how we looked. It's clear he's still distracted by whatever happened with the District 11 Victor. Saoirse, at least, seems to notice.

"Is Daisy going to be all right?" Saoirse asks quietly.

"No," Thom answers. "But she's not out for blood with a pair of pinking shears." Thom answers. "Cobb and Shep got her down. That reminds me," He rounds on us. "Word from Shep is that District 2's tired of losing and has got themselves a pair of real fighters this year. Crazy to boot." He says. "Watch out for them."

"All ready met them in the elevator." Flynn admits. "Not the brightest, but certainly the biggest."

"And ruthless too." Thom continues. "Sounds like 2's putting their kids to work."

"Isn't that against the rules?" I ask. "To train them before hand?"

"Sure, but who's to say what counts as training?" Thom answers as we move into the apartment. "We spear fish in 4. Spear translates as well to a person as well as a fish, buts it's part of our industry. Can't very well forbid us from working the trade, can they?" He explains. "If 2 has started putting their children to hefting stone slabs and swinging pickaxes, who's to tell them they can't? Nah, just watch out for them. They've not won a Games since the beginning. Makes them awful sensitive."

"5, 8 and 10 have _never_ won." I observe.

"5, 8, and 10 aren't getting the supplies that 2 is." Thom reminds me. "They haven't decided it's an _honor_ to win the Games."

"An _honor_?" Flynn sounds horrified. "Are you _serious_?" I have to admit - I don't understand it either. It's not a shameful thing, certainly. There are certainly perks in the wake of a Games Victory. Extra food. The temporary benevolence from the Capitol But there is nothing _honorable_ about children forced to do the unthinkable just to survive.

"2's always had a warrior's spirit." Minerva reminds us. There's something brisk in her tone. Like she doesn't like where this conversation is going and is quite ready to get back to discussing shiny things. "They're simply trying to put it to use." She explains.

"Brings the Capitol's favor." Thom explains. Minerva waves us to the plushy couches before the windows of the apartment and the blank wall over the mantelpiece. I get the feeling that the empty space is actually a telescreen. I'm not wrong. It flares to life for a recap of the opening ceremonies as we sit. I end up squashed between Saoirse and Dio. The flounce in Saoirse's skirt and the brim of Dio's ridiculous hat creep into my personal space. I don't mind. There's something comforting about the closeness after standing so alone and so exposed before our executioner and the entire nation.

"So? You won. We only got the extra rations for a year and the Peacekeepers were as hard as ever." Flynn observes. Thom, surprisingly, doesn't say anything just gives him a hard look. One that says he'd love to answer that question honestly. But that says the answer to that question might very well count as treason. That says it's because District 4 hasn't bought the Capitol line, hook and sinker like 2.

"Thom isn't nearly as charming as Dom." Saoirse explains to cover the silence. As if someone was listening in. It occurs to me that they probably are. "He's the District 2 Victor. Very first Hunger Games winner – boy's got charm oozing out of his ears. Knows how to lay it on thick." Saoirse and Dio giggle. Thom doesn't look offended. Even Minerva smiles, like we're away from anything remotely like resentment toward Capitol policy and back to the pretty things she prefers. We settle in to watch ourselves looking sad and longing, ride through the streets. Minerva oohs and ahhs all over again. Saoirse and Dio congratulate us on following directions and selling the selkie look. Thom grumbles about how damn lucky we were not to be as naked as Shep's kids from 12 or as weighed down with feathers or wires like the 1s and 2s respectively.

When it's over, Minerva announces bedtime to prep us for the first day of training. Thom snorts something about having to meet someone and sulks off to the elevators. Capitol attendants appear to lead Flynn and me to our rooms. Saoirse waves them away and the stylists take us to our bedrooms instead.

The opulence has become completely unsurprising at this point. My bed is larger than Grandfather's skiff. The carpet is plush. The bathroom tiled in polished marble. The shower with its fleet of buttons, which spit out a library of different salts and soaps.

"Listen _cailín_." Saoirse says, as she shows me how to work the many controls in the room. The attendant summons. The shower controls. The remote, which control music and ambient noise. Makes a joke or too. She shows me bedclothes, a silk gown like the one from the train. And the training outfit I'm require to wear tomorrow, tight trousers and shirt in a meshy sort of fabric I've never heard of.

When she's finished these explanations, she sits me down on the bed. Wipes away the makeup on my face with a cloth from the bathroom. "Now you listen, my _cailín_." She says seriously. "Tomorrow begins training. This is your chance to make sure you know how to survive. The Gamemakers watch, but don't you worry about them. Worry about _you_."

"Shouldn't Thom be telling me this?" I ask. Saoirse just clicks her tongue. Scrubs at the selkie eyes she spent so long tracing on this afternoon.

"I'm sure he'll say something similar at breakfast." She says. "But it's important. There are always a million ways to die in the Arena even without the other Tributes out hunting. Make food, water and shelter your top priorities. I want you coming home, _Mairead_." There's something I haven't seen before in Saoirse's eyes. Something desperate and pleading. Like she can't stand to send away another child. As though now that she no longer has an immediate role to play in my ensuring my homecoming, she's let herself worry about me.

I'm touched.

It has so far been the greatest show of concern for my current predicament than anyone, Minerva, Thom and Flynn included, has so far displayed. She doesn't tell me I'm going to die. She doesn't tell me any more about sponsors or the viewing audience. She's telling me about things I can control.

"You'll all look the same tomorrow. Same outfits. No make up." Saoirse continues. "Don't worry about standing out until the end. The first few days just learn and master. Promise?"

"Promise." I say. Saoirse believes me and pulls me into a hug.

"Good love." She says. Saoirse breaks the embrace and pats my cheek. "Try to sleep, my _cailín_." She says. "You need it."

She didn't have to tell me so.

The moment I've scrubbed the rest of my makeup off, pulled on the silk nightgown Saoirse set out, and laid down, the complete exhaustion I've been ignoring hits me hard. With the stress of being dolled up and paraded before the man who ordered my death and the entire nation on top of not sleeping more than an hour or two the night before, I'm completely wasted. I don't even have time to think about District 4 or what anyone thought about the selkie costumes. I don't even have time to miss my little pallet in the rafters or Grandfather's snoring below me.

I'm out the moment my head hits the pillow until Minerva raps at my door to invite me to breakfast. Begrudgingly, I follow Minerva's latest instructions. I don't sleep in. I shower. I dress in the training uniform Saoirse laid out for me. I head for the living area.

By the time I reach the breakfast table, Minerva and Flynn are all ready there. Saoirse and Dio are noticeably absent. The stylists, it seems have gone back to their workshop to craft the perfect interview looks for us. Thom too is missing. He, according to Minerva, was called away for pressing social engagement after we were hurried off to bed and is still sleeping off the remnants of the evening's activities. She sounds disapproving, but she doesn't say anything else. Even when Thom finally does drag himself in wearing two-thirds of a three-piece suit looking for all the world as if he's been keelhauled.

"Any words of advice for this morning, great mentor?" Flynn asks. He's dumped the cold stoicism he had on after the Lottery. He's even abandoned that little bit of charming cheek he had on last night when we discussed our selkie suits. He seems to have decided to play Thom's game of snark instead.

"Yeah," Thom drops into the seat across from Minerva. One of the Capitol attendants pours him a cup of coffee. "Learn something useful and don't show off. Save that for your private session with the Gamemakers." He says. "Let the others know you aren't weak, but don't show them your greatest strengths." This isn't half bad advice. Flynn seems to thinks so too, because he tones down the bitterness in his tone.

"Should we try to form alliances?" Flynn presses.

"If you want." Thom shrugs. "Helps some in the beginning, but just remember you'll still have to kill them there at the end." Whatever happened on last night's social engagement has left Thom worn out. He's not evening snarling when he speaks. "If you don't think you'll be able to kill your new friends, go it alone. Now," There's a grimace creeping back into his face now. "Take a lesson from Mags here and shut your trap so I can eat my damn breakfast, Moses."

After we eat, Minerva herds us down to the Training Floor where stations featuring every possible sort of survival tactic and self defense imaginable have been set up for us. Districts 1 and 2 are all ready waiting for us, but there is a steady stream from the elevators.

When all twenty-four Tributes have assembled, we are run through a set of mandatory hand-to-hand combat drills, which are to be repeated at intervals throughout the day. There are general obstacle courses as well which we are repeatedly subjected to. By the time they cut us loose to choose out stations, my body is burning and I'm sporting an impressive bruise across my tailbone from where the hand-to-hand instructor flipped me.

But I ignore the aching and the bruise. Instead, I do exactly as Saoirse suggested and make for the survival stations.

Edible plants. Fishing. Snares. Even camouflage.

If I'm going to die, it's going to be because one of the Tributes kills me. It will not be because I was too ill equipped to find basic necessities. It will not be because of my own stupidity.

But after two days of working the stations, I find out it may not be entirely necessary.

Without Danny here to upstage my knots and fishhooks, I'm the star pupil.

Fishing, knots and snares, even hammock tying. I excel at. The trainers all look impressed. The knots and snares instructor teaches me a dozen of his most difficult tricks and while my work isn't quite as tight as his, it is considered satisfactory. I earn a pleased look. Grandfather would be proud.

Edible plants takes a bit longer. A full afternoon. But by the end of the day's training, I feel assured that I can successfully feed myself in the event I make it through Day One in the Arena.

On the third day of Training, at Thom's encouragement, I start testing out weapons. Thom's social engagements are many and almost always leave him tired enough to give solid advice without any nasty observations tacked on in the mornings so long as he gets to eat his eggs. So after two full days of making sure I'll be able to eat and won't freeze to death, I start looking into armaments. I have no plans to actually engage anyone once in the Arena of course. That certainly won't stop them from coming to me. Having some way of protecting myself can't hurt.

At least, it wouldn't, if I were at all capable with any sort of weapon.

It takes all of a morning to figure out that weaponry is _not_ my forte. Swords, spears, maces, pikes, and tridents are all much too heavy for me and my aim is tragically bad. Even if they weren't, I'm not fast enough for fencing and the others require too close of quarters for my taste. After a few hours at the archery range, I can at least hit the stationary target. But it would take years for me to hit anything like remotely like a kill shot and even longer to do the same to a moving target. At knives, I prove fair if only because I've dressed fish for Gram for years. But _throwing_ knives is another matter entirely and I find myself with the same trouble as my archery skills. Any raw talent I might have had would take years to shape into a useful skill.

The only weapon I prove the least bit competent with is the slingshot. My wrist and arms are strong enough to withstand the tension. The aim is easy. Straight between the posts. By the end of the session, I can pick off the row of targets lined up and even the moving set.

Of all the unthreatening, unhelpful things to be good at, I am good with a slingshot.

Thom roars with laughter when I tell him so at breakfast the next morning. If I wasn't quite so embarrassed and disheartened I might laugh with him.

"A _slingshot_?" He howls. "A damned slingshot? Oh _Mags_! You _would_!"

"What can you even _kill_ with a slingshot?" Flynn asks with a chuckle. He, of course, excels at all the things I cannot even begin to pick up. Like Thom, spears, tridents and pikes seem to be his specialty.

"Gulls, maybe." Thom laughs again. He's still looking rather rough around the edges this morning and his mood as of late has been dreadful. We haven't even seen him except at breakfast in days. But this seems to have cheered him up considerable. "If you caught them just right."

"Well!" Minerva, of all people, comes to my defense. "At least it's something. She won't be completely helpless out there." She reminds them. "Good for you, darling." She smiles encouragingly at me.

"Work on something else for today." Thom is still chuckling. "Bows, knives. Something useful. Can't hurt to diversify. Even if you can kill something, there's no guarantee they'll have a slingshot." He reminds me.

This observation sends a fresh pang of dread into my stomach.

I haven't been thinking about the Arena and what the Gamemakers will have in store for us. Not really.

I've been thinking about things in terms of ordinary wilderness. Terrain found in Panem. Completely ignoring the fact that there is no guarantee that our Arena will be such.

There's no telling what the Gamemakers will have devised for us.

Some years, they are traditional terrains. Forests and deserts and mountains found in Panem. Especially in the first three years or so. Since then, they've started mixing it up. Thom's Arena, for example, had been an island. Tropical, like the ones you can see from District 4's oceans if you're out far enough. Filled with all manner of poisonous plants and animals, the only safe food a particular form of tree nuts and some fish out of the surrounding water. Another year, the District 12 Victor's year, I think, had been a true stone labyrinth, full of locked doors, hidden wells and poisoned springs. Last year, Keepsie's Arena, had been overgrown orchards, where all but a few tree yielding any kind of edible fruit. There had even been a year where the Cornucopia had been loaded with nothing but weapons, leaving the Tributes to fend entirely for themselves in the cold and rainy forests and another where there had been nothing at all and Tributes had had to fashion their own weapons from the wilderness.

Our Arena could be anything. The Gamemakers could be generous or miserly. And in only three days, we'll find out for sure.


	6. Interview

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,537

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the delay – exams are creeping up. I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far – you have no idea how much I love seeing the hits tick up. I'd _especially_ like to thank those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece – those lovely little notifications of your support make me deliriously happy. ^.^

Chapter Fun Facts: In Greek mythology, Phaedra is the sister of Ariadne (of the Theusus and the Minotaur myth) who ultimate marries Theusus, before falling in love with his son (who's all ready in love with a captured princess) and killing herself. Pentheus is the king of Thebes first cousin of the god Dionysus who denies the divinity of Dionysus and in punishment is brutally hacked up by his mother. Why, yes, I do read quite a lot of Greek tragedies. Boy 1's name is the corruption of 'doily', Girl 3's name is an iPhone app and Boy 3's name is a corruption of 'circui'. Julius' suit is the color of a daffodil – the traditional flower for a 10th anniversary because the traditional precious material is tin, which, let's be honest, is kind of dull.

Let me know what you think! = )

_**6 – Interview**_

By the time the final training session rolls around, I'm getting better with both arrows and knives. I'm still probably a decade or so away from actual prowess with either one, but there's comfort in knowing I can make the effort.

For the private session with the Gamemakers, I have instructions from Thom to show off the slingshot skills I've acquired. This increases the odds one will be present in the Arena.

The morning is the usual set of drills in hand-to-hand, strength, agility and endurance that we've been subjected too all week. After lunch, we are left in the cafeteria to wait. I sit with Flynn like I have all week. I haven't exactly been particularly sociable. He's the only person I even remotely know. The only one I'm comfortable enough around to not make a complete fool of myself.

Unlike me, Flynn's been making friends this week. Since it became clear Flynn is one to beat with his weapons aptitude, he's become rather sought after. Girl 1, whose name is Lace and not one but _both_ 2s, Phaedra and Pentheus, have taken to hanging around with him at stations and at lunch.

I was horrified when he first started talking to them. Pentheus has only a hungry glare for me. Phaedra showers me with insults as often as she can. But Thom had congratulated Flynn on this achievement. Not only does it show his strength as a competitor, but there is something to be said for not having to worry about getting targeted in the initial Cornucopia bloodbath. An 'if you can't beat them, join them' sort of thing. Friends close, enemies closer and all that. They sit with us too as we wait, but not for long.

The private sessions are called by district. Boys first, then girls.

I don't have to tolerate Flynn's new allies for very long. All of them are called before us. When it's Flynn's turn, he pats my shoulder once. Gives me a small smile of encouragement. And then, after twenty minutes or so, it is my turn. I try not to shake too terribly as I am summoned back to the Training Floor.

The Training Floor is painfully quiet and empty. The instructors have gone. The stations remain fully stocked for my use. The Gamemakers sit where they have all week. They at least seem to be paying more attention than they have been this afternoon. I sigh. Focus on my target practice.

I follow Thom's orders. Start the moving targets and pick them off one by one. When I finish, a buzzer sounds. I replace the slingshot and nod to the Gamemakers as Thom instructed.

"Thank you." I say. It's quite, but my voice doesn't even shake. And just like that, training is over. I can return to our floor.

We don't learn our scores until dinner. Thom, for once, is present. Minnie and the stylists beg to hear details of our sessions. Finally, the telescreen beeps and Julius Flickerman's face appears above the fireplace. As he reads the scores, each Tribute's picture and score flash beside his shiny, bald head. Flynn gets a ten. Unsurprising, because if his report is accurate, he skewered dummy after dummy with his pike. It helps of course, that he actually _looks_ like a competitor too.

I receive a six.

This is a reasonable score, given that I'm not exactly deadly. That doesn't mean it's encouraging. Actually, it's rather disheartening. I'm not the only low score. Girl 3 got a lower score than me. A four. Boy 3 tied me. But everyone else before me pulled at least an eight. After me, scores drift between five and eight. It still doesn't help my confidence. I must look concerned because Saoirse pats my hand reassuringly.

"Don't you worry about that number, love." She tells me. "Keepsie pulled only a two last year and she showed them all, didn't she?" I nod. Saoirse grins. She's been her cheerful, mischievous self the last few days. The small breakdown and outpouring of concern she expressed after the opening ceremonies has faded back to the smiling, impishness of our first meeting. I suspect it has to do with the impending interviews. Something back within her control. "Doesn't mean a thing."

I don't point out that Keepsie only scored a two because the Training Floor didn't have a landmine station. That Keepsie is not only smarter than me, but certainly more ferocious. Instead, I give a small smile. As though I have been appropriately reassured. Nod.

"Good love," Saoirse grins back and pats my hand. "We'll get them again tomorrow night at the interview – I've got just the thing!" She beams.

Saoirse, it turns out, has a _lot_ of things. Most of them are silver and sparkly. The eveningwear version of the selkie costume.

The gown is a shimmering thing. Like powder and paint my skin on the night of the opening ceremonies. An asymmetrical neckline like a waterfall into a floating skirt. Jewelry made from shiny sea glass. Silver shoes with heels higher than anything I've ever worn which Minerva has me walk in for the better part of three hours the next morning. They aren't even as high as Saoirse's. I still trip over them. Minerva clucks at me.

I'm almost relieved when I can take the damnable things off for my afternoon mentoring session with Thom. I'm not entirely sure what he'll have to say to me. His angle had been and still is the bashful, polite sort for the cameras. Charming and handsome, with a disarming smile. An 'aw, shucks' sort of thing.

Bashful I can do. Polite, even. Charming and certainly handsome are out. But I can't even trust myself to speak efficiently. There's little chance I can properly put the few angles I could work into practice.

Thom, however, has a plan.

"Shy and innocent." He announces when I arrive in the main living quarters. Flynn has been whisked back to his room with Dio and Minerva for what I imagine is the same rundown of dress and presentation I was subjected to minus the high heels. "You're going as shy and innocent."

"Excuse me?" I ask. Thom is sitting in the bend of the sofa, feet propped on the low table. He's nursing a cup of coffee even though it's after lunch. Studying me.

"Sit." Thom orders. He waves to the opposite end of the sofa nearest me. I sit. "I know you well enough, Mags. You can't pull off sexy or seductive and I'm pretty sure Danny would knock out my teeth if I put you up there like that anyway." I smile at the thought. Victor or not, Danny _would_ punch Thom for tarting me up in front of the whole country. Thom ignores me. Continues. "Cute and bubbly only works if you can get out a full sentence without choking. Tragic is good, but it's boring. Wears thin. They don't want to see it. " He says with a sip of his coffee. "Shy and innocent's the way to go. It's you anyway."

"You think so?"

"Mags, you talk to maybe six people beyond professional conversation, you have one friend and only because Fil's ballsy enough to declare it so and any time anyone not related to you looks at you for more than a nanosecond, you turn red and retreat." He observes. I can't argue. He's right. "Shy and innocent." Thom repeats. "Now listen, Flickerman's a good egg. Capitol, crazy to boot, but he tries. Plays your angle easy and doesn't let you look a fool. He'll help you out." Thom continues. Then he launches into the instructions. "Smile sheepishly. Play up the stammer – just enough to be noticed, but not so much it's painful to listen to. Cough, smile and apologize if it gets bad. Talk about how you've never seen anything more incredible than the Capitol."

"All right –"

"Flickerman usually asks about Training scores and Games strategy – brush off the score, talk about how nervous you were that day. How you could have done better." He says. "Don't say anything specific about your plans for the Arena."

"I won't." This I can be certain of. I don't have specific plans for the Arena. No concrete strategies beyond _find food_, _boil water_, and _try not to die_.

"Good. He asks a bit about the Districts too – friends, family and all that. Family stories are good, but don't mention dead parents." He warns. "Living relations only. And don't talk about how poor you are. The audience doesn't care that you have to take tessera or how a single meal here could feed your whole family for a day."

"There's really going to be time for all of that?" I ask. In recent years, each Tribute is only given three minutes on stage. In the first couple of years, it was longer. The interviews would go on all night. I have never been more grateful for the shortened time.

"Probably not," Thom agrees. "If we're lucky, you won't have to talk much at all."

_Lucky_.

Because my luck has been so excellent lately.

After Thom's lecture and a hurried early dinner, I am turned back over to Saoirse and the prep team.

Saoirse is thrilled. She is back in her element. Contributing to my success in the only way she knows how.

There isn't much make-up tonight. Only just enough so I can be seen from the stage.

"So they'll recognize you tomorrow." Saoirse explains. The preps cluck in agreement. There's still the shimmering dust over my bare shoulders. My hair is back in its expertly styled gull's nest, which the prep team has declared will be the next big thing in the Capitol. The gown fits flawlessly, even if the shoes pinch.

When they finally let me near a mirror, I begin to worry. Gram had given me one final instruction when we said our goodbyes. _Don't you dare let them change you. If you let them change you, then they'll have won again_.

I have let them change me. I do not look at all like myself.

I don't own anything even a quarter as lovely as this dress. I can barely begin to _imagine_ something as lovely as this dress. My hair doesn't loop into perfectly tousled curls. My skin doesn't shine. My eyes aren't that big or that beautiful. This train of thought must show on my face because Saoirse smiles encouragingly.

"Ah, my _cailín_! You're beautiful, darling. We just help you show it."

"My family won't recognize me." I confess.

"Of course they will." She says. "They love you. You always look beautiful to them. Everyone else just gets to see it tonight too." Saoirse beams. The prep team titters encouragingly. Minerva arrives to hurry us all to the Studio Floor.

It's the only floor of the Training Center where the public and the cameras are allowed. It's set up like a theatre. Rows of seats stacked back into the massive space. A glittering stage with two seats and half a dozen cameras trained on it.

It's all ready filled with colorful, chattering Capitol citizen when they herd the Tributes into the front row. Our entourages, including chaperones and mentors file in behind us. We're all looking incredible. More like people than District themed mannequins we were at the opening ceremonies. But not quite as normal as we have all week in training.

In years where I have not been a Tribute, this is my least-hated part of the Games. Everyone still looks real. Alive. Like the children they are. At home, my family does not own a telescreen. We have to sit out in the square with most everyone else in town to watch the Games. For the interviews, it's always my job to tell Fillipa what everyone is wearing. She tells me which ones are terrible liars based on their voices. Danny does his Julius Flickerman impression to make us all laugh. And even though Julius is sure to be his usual cheery, supportive self with the snorting laugh that begs to be imitated this year, the interviews have quickly become my least favorite portion of the preliminary Games broadcasts.

_I will have to speak in front of all these people._

Gram and Grandfather, the boys, everyone from home. The whole nation. I will have to smile. Answer questions about silly things. Like this is the most fun I've ever had. All on what is very likely the eve of my death.

It makes me dizzy. A bit nauseous. I barely notice when the noise of the crowd builds to the roar it was at the opening ceremonies.

Julius Flickerman steps onto the stage. Even Julius is looking his best. His suit is a yellow this year. Bright. Cheerful. And, as always, sparkling. Under the lights, his baldhead shines like sun on the water. He beams. Waves. Welcomes Tributes, Victors, stylists and all of Panem to the Tribute Interviews of the 10th Annual Hunger Games! Summons the first Tribute to the stage.

Lace, from District 1. She plays the cute and bubbly angle. Her District partner, a boy called Doil who leers and smirks goes with devious and plotting. Phaedra, District 2, runs with sexy and seductive. Pentheus takes a charming, bad-boy route. Girl 3, whose name is actually Siri, tries the cute thing too. Boy 3, a boy called Circ, tries clever and plotting. It doesn't quite work out for either one. They're too nervous. Again, I can't tell if it's because of the crowds or because they've spent a_ lot _of time around Keepsie lately.

And then, it's my turn.

"Let's welcome Miss Margaret Benoit!" Julius calls. Another roar goes up from the crowd as I climb the stage to take the seat Circ has just vacated. "Margaret!" Julius flashes me smile. I'm surprised, because it's a real smile. Thom wasn't joking when he'd said Flickerman was a good sort. I smile back, carefully tucking my skirt under me as I sit. Cross my ankles, like Minerva has instructed.

Julius starts out with something fairly easy. "That was a striking entrance you made this week. Heartbreakingly lovely. Is there anything you can tell us about that?"

"I-I-I-" Or perhaps not so easy. My voice gives out immediately. I flounder for the words without even trying. There are just too many eyes on me. Julius raises an eyebrow. I cough once. Try to cover it with a smile like Thom instructed. "I-I-I'm so sorry." I say. Julius smiles reassuringly.

"Nervous, are we?" He asks. I nod. Smile sheepishly.

"T-T-There are just so many people." I admit. "It was the same at the Opening Ceremonies." I try to answer the first question. "It was lucky I didn't have to speak that night – I've never seen so many people in one place before." Shy and innocent seems to be working. At least Julius knows where I'm going. He smiles again. Like he completely understands.

"So, Margaret –" Julius continues. He seems to have given up on his original line of questioning in favor of something considerably juicier. "I'll ask what every girl in Panem wants to know – what's it like working so closely with Thom Argon?" Even over the lights, I can see Thom sitting in the crowd, looking stony. Next to him, Saoirse giggles. Punches his arm playfully.

"I-I don't know, Julius." My voice is surprisingly strong. "It's not much different than at home I suppose." It's a lie. It's not at all the same as home. It's much different. _Thom_ is different. Fillipa will surely pick up the lie of it. But I continue anyway. "Thom's friends with my older brother Danny – they've been telling me what to do since I could walk." I explain. I smile. The crowd chuckles. There are a few 'aw's too. Like my lie is the sweetest thing they've heard all night.

"Not much different? Not even after his post-Opening Ceremonies mentor interview?" Julius asks. I'm confused. I haven't heard anything at about mentor interviews. It's either new or not required viewing for the Districts.

"His what?" I ask. Julius looks genuinely surprised.

"You haven't seen it?" I shake my head. Someone in the broadcasting booth helps Julius out. The screen above his head had until recently been flashing cuts from Julius to me and to Thom. Those shots are replaced with a fresh set of footage time stamped the day after opening ceremonies.

It's Julius and Thom, laughing about a joke that has passed. Julius is in more casual version of his yellow suit. Thom has on that handsome smile he wears for the cameras. Then the Julius on the screen asks Thom about our ceremony looks and wasn't little Margaret just _stunning_? Thom on the screen, chuckles nervously. Looks sheepish before admitting he _always_ thinks I'm stunning.

After that, the lies keep coming.

That he's been stunned by me since we were children walking to school together. How his heart dropped when my name was called. How worried he's been for me. How in love with me he is. How he's never been able to say anything because I was his friend's baby sister.

"I-I-I-" I stammer helplessly as things fall into place.

_This_ was Thom's true plan. _This_ is what he'd meant by _if we're lucky, you won't have to talk. _Thom had all ready done the talking for me. He just hadn't been sure they'd play the footage.

I know it's for show, but I can still feel my face flush red. No one has ever said anything like that about me. Especially not on national television. "I-I didn't know." I finish lamely. I realize I have no idea what my face is doing. That this is probably another part of Thom's grand scheme. Catching me so completely off guard that I fall perfectly into a more natural shy and innocent look.

I glance down into audience to see if I'm right. I can't read Thom's face because the cameras are back on him. Instead of wearing the triumph he would normally, he's looking at me with a wistful, longing smile worthy of our selkie costumes. Unhelpful.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to Mr. Argon?" Julius asks me. The crowd titters. This is the kind of angle they've been waiting for. I swallow. Try to rally so the stammer isn't unbearable.

"Oh Thom, Danny's going to kill you when you get back home." It's silly. It's true. It's just about the only thing I can think of. The crowd at least, loves it. And then, there's a buzzer. I shake Julius' hand. He sends me off with a smile and a few comments to the crowd about how this year has been full of surprises for us all. The crowd is still buzzing when I return to my seat beside Flynn and Circ.

After I sit, Julius quiets the audience. Diverts their attention with the prospect of hearing from one of the highest scoring Tributes in training and one of this year's top contenders, Flynn Moses!

Flynn plays the charm angle. He excels at it. Funny and winning. Smiling, teasing Julius. They talk about his impressive training score. Make jokes about how Flynn's not offended Thom likes me better because I'm so much cuter than he is. The crowd loves him almost as much as they loved the mentor-Tribute love story Thom concocted.

I'm just relieved I don't to have to speak again. Once Flynn's time is up and he is back beside me, the rest of the interviews pass in a blur. Everyone talks about their opening ceremonies looks. Their training scores. Their Districts. Family. Friends. Lovers.

I end up tuning out to mull over what is surely happening on the square at home after this evening revelations. Surely Fil has figured out it was all for the cameras. An effort to attract sponsors. Danny might not care. He's probably steamed Thom would try something like that on national television. Jackie and Willie surely think it's the funniest thing they've ever seen. I can't even imagine what Gram and Grandfather are thinking of it all.

When it's over, when Boy 12 finishes his interview, Julius thanks us all again. Bids the audience good night. The Tributes stand to great applause and we are marched back to the elevators flanked by our entourages.

Minerva is over the moon. Saoirse and Dio are giddy. Away from the cameras, Thom looks appropriately victorious.

Thanks to him, District 4 was the standout this year. _I_ was a standout because of him.

He doesn't mention the specifics of my interview. No one does. Only how perfect Flynn and I played things. So clever and funny and adorably shy. Even when we're back on our floor, Minerva still titters about our success until she declares it's time for bed.

Only then, when everyone else is just out of earshot, does Thom catch my arm. He's looking stony again. But it isn't nasty or mean or even the false admiration he wore in the audience, so I'm not offended.

"Don't say I didn't try, Mags." He hisses. "I _tried_."


	7. Cornucopia

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,228

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the delay – exams are creeping up. I'm presently avoiding a paper and a final directing scene. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far, _especially_ effmitch and Dr Giggles for being such dedicated reviewers. I love hearing what you have to say. ^.^

_Chapter Fun Facts_: The saint on Mags' chain is Saint Peter, one of the 12 Apostles and one of the several patron saints of maritime related trades. The ruined city is supposed to be the remains of Chicago – the Cornucopia sits in what used to be Grant Park along the lake.

Let me know what you think! = )

_**7 – Cornucopia**_

I can't sleep.

I don't have anything left to worry about. No training. No interview. Not even intense media exposure.

Only my impending death.

In less than twelve hours, I will be in the Arena. I will be standing on a little metal disk surrounded by landmines. Waiting for a gong to signal that twenty-three children and I may begin slaughtering one another.

It's terrifying.

Like that first night on the train, I can't stand to lie in bed. Pondering my upcoming demise. Instead, I need to see the sky. The stars, if I can. It may be the last chance I get anyway. I try the door to my room. Surprisingly, it gives way.

The apartment is empty. Quiet and lonesome. The elevators are frozen, but the fire stairs are unlocked. Down is surly nothing, but Peacekeepers. Up, at least, should at some point reveal fresh air. A rooftop.

I'm not wrong.

It takes a while and I'm winded when I reach the roof. It isn't empty. There's a full terrace up here. Benches. Flower boxes. The wind howls and I can hear cheering and music from the streets below.

"Oh, it's you."

It's Shep. District 12's Victor. He's sitting out by the edge on the roof, drinking what looks like some sort of liquor. Smoking too and staring wistfully down at the roaring crowds in the streets below. Up close, he looks younger. Sadder. I'm sure when his prep team gets a hold of him he's quite handsome. Dark hair. Tan skin. Tonight, though, he's more than a little ragged. Like Thom has been every morning this week, but worn down. Gloomy and forlorn.

"You're Thom's girl." It isn't a question. "Can't sleep, I suppose?" He says. I shake my head. "No one does. Half decent interview, you gave." He congratulates half-heartedly. He even sounds tired.

"That Thom gave, you mean." I correct. My voice is small and quiet, but it doesn't waver. Shep snorts a bitter sounding laugh.

"Hell of a thing Thom did for you." He observes. "Only one of us who might get away with it too – they love him here. Boy walks the walk and talks the talk for the cameras."

"He's trying." I explain. "It wasn't a lie – he will have to look my brother in the eyes after I'm dead. Danny won't kill him if he at least tried to bring me home." He snorts again.

"Who says you'll be dead?" He asks me.

"The odds are not in my favor." I remind him.

"Odds weren't in Keepsie's either and she's downstairs taking shots of hard liquor with Districts 2, 6, and 7." Shep reminds me. He takes a shot off his own bottle for emphasis.

"Yes, well, she's a whole lot smarter than I am." I voice what I didn't have the courage to tell Saoirse.

"Whole lot crazier, you mean?" He asks with a smirk.

"Smarter – I certainly can't repurpose landmines." He snorts again. Nods and lets it drop.

"So who was it? Your momma? Daddy?" Shep asks suddenly, after a long pull on his liquor bottle.

"Excuse me?" I ask. The question is completely out of left field.

"That got you here." Shep clarifies. "Who was it? Who didn't like the way things were?"

"I-I-" I begin. I'm completely caught off guard by this thinly veiled implication.

"Don't think for a minute that it was because you had rotten luck this week." Shep tells me. He knocks the ashes off the end of his cigarette. Takes another drag. A shot of alcohol. "We're all here to pay a price. Set an example. Which family member are you paying for?" I'm not sure I want to answer. Surely there are cameras out here, so someone can monitor the terrace. Make sure Tributes don't hurl themselves over the edge before the Games actually begin. But Shep is clearly drunk enough to voice what everyone else avoids saying. He's watching me with a glare that demands an answer.

"M-M-My papa." I stammer. "B-But he's dead-" He snorts again. Stamps out the end of his cigarette on the ground beside him.

"So's my daddy." Shep explains. "Brothers, too. That sure don't mean they ain't going to twist the knife on what's left of my family as much as they can. You the baby of the lot, too?"

"No."

"Only girl, then?"

"Yes."

"That's it." He says. "Dom's the eldest and the only boy. Chantilly's the only girl. Lulu's the baby. Cobb, Theo, Thom, and Keepsie are only children. Daisy and me, we're the last living children." He runs through the list of Victors. Some, I actually remember. Lulu, District 9, won the year before Keepsie in close quarters with knives. Chantilly, District 1, won the year before Thom by outrunning the massive mutt-creatures that ripped through her Arena. "You're what's going to hurt your treacherous family the most." He explains. "If it wasn't enough to just kill them off, they're making for damn sure we remember."

"B-But-"

"But nothing, 4." He says. "That's part of what the Games _are_ – why do you think it's they're such a damn _spectacle_? The fancy clothes and the food and the fucking _interviews_, like it's nothing but _fun_." Shep snorts again and takes another shot from his bottle. He is really on a roll now. "Salt in the wound – trivializing our losses and shoving it all back in our faces. Of course, it would hurt if they just rounded up 24 kids to slaughter every year, but it hurts worse when you know the victorious audience pretends it's one big holiday, screaming, and cheering and throwing damn _parties_ themed in the style of the executions."

I'm not entirely sure how to respond. To silence him would paint me a coward or a Capitol sympathizer. To let him plow on might very well mean treason and brand me a rebel. Ending in a fate far worse than the Hunger Games for not just me, but everyone I've ever met. I try something safe.

"I-I-I should go." I nod back toward the door.

"You should." Shep agrees. He's slurring a bit now too. At the very least, he seems to be winding down from his rant. The fire has gone from his voice. "Get some sleep while you still can, 4. Arenas ain't exactly restful."

"T-Thank you." I say. Shep waves me off.

"May the odds be _ever_," He stresses the syllables like a true Capitol citizen. "In you favor." I wave to him once. Polite, as I should be, but I nearly run for the stairs. Shep's cackling follows me down. I try not to think about what he's just revealed. About paying for our families.

It's not surprising, of course. Somewhere in the back of everything it was just understood. Payment for disloyalty was what the Games were supposed to be about. They told us that every year.

It has just never felt quite so _personal_.

I'm short of breath by the time I reach my room. The trek down to our floor was decidedly less tiring that the hike up, but it's well past midnight now. I still can't imagine sleeping, but my body doesn't seem to care that my mind won't shut off. Like the first night here, I collapse into a dreamless sleep the moment I hit my pillows.

And then, Minerva wakes me for the last time.

Her suit is still pressed and sharp. Her wig is still outrageous. But for once, she is not surprised-looking or at all enthusiastic. Her eyes are puffy and red like her suit. She sniffles quite a lot too. She looks like she's been crying all morning.

"Come along, Maggie." She says when she shakes me awake. It has taken all week, but she has finally given up the use of my given name. "It's time, darling."

"Thank you, Minerva." I say, sleepily. I'm still tired. I can feel the achy lethargy in my limbs, but my head is clear. Adrenaline kicks in enough so that I don't even care about exhaustion.

_Today is the day._

Minerva knows it, too. Her lip quivers and she tosses her arms around me. It seems that in the face of sending her charges to their deaths, Minerva can no longer focus on the shiny and pretty things that she loves so much. She's a Capitol citizen. The Games are not supposed to be a punishment for her. But she has had ten years of sending children to their ends. She at least knows she probably won't see me again and seems to want me to know she appreciates me.

"Oh, Maggie - thank _you_." Minerva gushes.

"For what?" I ask.

"For your sacrifice! You're doing a brave thing for the sake of us all." It's the same thing the President and the propos say. Only from Minerva, it actually sounds genuine. She actually _believes_ the 'necessary evil to ensure peace' line. I want to be cross with her, but she is just so _earnest_. She hugs me again. Sniffles and leaves me with a teary looking Saoirse.

Attendants bring us breakfast. Saoirse is nearly beside herself. She barely eats. Just fires off fresh instructions that really ought to come from Thom. _No fires at night. Always boil water before you drink it. Grab what's closest to you at the start disk and run for cover. Don't fight through to the Cornucopia. Don't eat anything you aren't absolutely positive about its identification._

Her voice is even wobblier than mine. Like she can scarcely keep herself from crying as she has me dress in the training uniform.

"Oh, my _cailín_!" Saoirse finally collapses when the Peacekeepers arrive to escort us to the hoverpad. She hugs me and cries until the Peacekeepers carefully untangle her from me and lead us off in separate directions. I can't speak. My voice is far too untrustworthy at this point. But I'm a little bit proud of myself for not crying. Like I'm actually as brave as Grandfather wants me to be.

In lieu of a proper goodbye, I wave to Saoirse as the Peacekeepers lead us in different directions. I don't think she sees, because she is nearly inconsolable now. Part of me is touched that not just Saoirse, but Minerva Holmes are concerned for my safety. The rest isn't sure if it ought to be offended that they are so certain I'll not be coming back.

I don't get a lot of time to mull it over. Adrenaline is still thrumming though me and all my brain seems to be able to handle is what comes next.

I am escorted to a hovercraft where the other Tributes are being delivered. Flynn is there, looking tired, but alert. The others are wearing looks ranging between terror and anticipation. No one speaks.

Our Peacekeeper escorts line us up by district in the belly of the hovercraft. They place us in two long rows of seats. Boys on one side, girls on the other so that we face our district partners. The doors hiss closed as the Peacekeepers leave. A rumbling grows around us as the hovercraft takes off and my stomach turns.

We sit in an uncomfortable quiet. One of the smaller boys down the row snuffles. A girl down from me weeps outright. The rest of us are holding it together, but a glance down the rows of seats confirms that that composure is hanging by a thread. Most of us, Flynn and myself included, try to avoid eye contact with the others.

Nurses in harsh white coats move down the line of Tributes. We are chipped. _Tracking devices_, the nurses explain when the tiny cylinders are shot into our forearms. To make sure the cameras can find us at all times. So they can find us when we've died. I'm surprised by how much it hurts to have that tiny little device forced into my arm.

I can still feel the burn where the chip went in even when we're off the hovercraft and led to the tiny, windowless staging areas below the Arena. It's a surprisingly plain space, compared to the extravagance of everywhere else we have so far occupied. It's still all posh furniture and shiny new tiles, of course. But there's none of the opulence of the trains or the Training Center. It's more utilitarian, like the prep center.

Saoirse is waiting for me. She's pulled herself together enough to at least give me a sad smile when I enter.

"I'm sorry for this morning, love." She says, pulling me into a hug. She doesn't offer an explanation or an excuse.

"I-I-I-It's-" My voice is nearly gone. I choke on the words. Saoirse clucks, like she knows what I'm trying to say.

"No it isn't, my _cailín._" She says. "You are being so brave and I should not be so weak." She sighs. Her breath catches like she's pushing down tears again. "Here." She clears her throat. Sniffs audibly. "We have an Arena uniform for you."

It's plain, the Arena uniform. Some years, the uniforms are specific to the Arena. Thom's island Arena had required thin shirts and tight shorts for the heat. The cold, rain forest year, they'd all been in rubber boots with heavy coats. But most years, they're fairly standard. This year is no exception. Athletic underthings in an easy-wash fabric. A light camisole. A long sleeved shirt in white. Tight, stretchy pants in black. Both in a quick dry fabric. Meant for running. A jacket in a deep blue in a fabric that is at once warm but light. There are boots too. Flexible with a thick sole.

It's down right unhelpful for trying to guess what the actual Arena will be like. Standard does not equal uninteresting Arena. It's just probably not an exotic climate. Not consistently frigid or roasting hot. But that doesn't mean it isn't filled with poisonous flora and fauna or vicious genetically altered creatures. It certainly doesn't mean there will be shelter or drinkable water.

"I forgot, darling." Saoirse says when I've dressed. "This passed the Gamemakers." From a pocket in her flouncy skirt, she pulls out a thin gold chain. Grandfather's chain. She clasps it around my neck. "Do you know what this is?" She asks, tapping the tiny gold medallion at the end of the chain.

"T-T-the m-m-masts of a s-ship," I garble out. Saoirse smiles sadly.

"It's very old. From before there were districts or capitols." Saoirse says. She turns the medallion so that the opposite side, the side with image of the old man faces up. "This fellow," She runs her thumb of the dainty cast face. "They called him a saint. Believed he was one of many watching over the living. He was the patron of fisherman." Saoirse continues. "Shipwrights and netmakers. Watched over them specifically because he himself was once a fisherman." I nod. Saoirse gives me another hug. "Let him watch over you, my _cailín._"

Another buzzer sounds.

"That's it then." Saoirse's voice breaks again. She squeezes me one last time. "It's time." She releases me. I want to thank her. For all she's tried to do. For caring so deeply about the terrible thing about to befall someone she's only known a week. But I can't. My voice won't cooperate. All that comes out is a jumble of broken sounds. Saoirse smiles another miserable little smile.

"I know, my _cailín._" She says. "You have been so brave. Keep on, dear one. Stay alive." She pats my cheek. Kisses my forehead. And then I must turn to the large glass cylinder. The metal start disk.

A glass door hisses closed behind me, cutting out all sounds from the staging room. I can see Saoirse crying again, but I cannot hear her. Only my own breathing. The sound of my racing heart.

And then another hydraulic hiss. My disk moves upward, like an elevator. Saoirse waves tearfully. I wave back one last time as I leave the staging area behind. And then suddenly, there is a blinding burst of sunlight.

_I am in the Arena._

It's a city.

_Was_ a city, anyway. The forests have overtaken it now. The buildings have crumbled to derelicts. Just hunks of cracked cement. Piles of chipped and charred brick. Twisted, rusting iron monster. Empty shells among the trees.

The Cornucopia sits on a shoreline, before a vast sea. No, not a sea. There's no salt in the air. But it's no less vast. I can't see any land beyond the horizon. Sunlight glares off the expanse of water just as brightly as it does from the giant golden horn.

The Tributes are arranged in no particular order on our disks in a semicircle, equidistance from the mouth of Cornucopia. Weapons and supplies are strategically scattered out and around in ascending order of desire as they near the mouth.

We get sixty seconds to take it in.

Around second ten or so, I'm focused on a decent plan. _Grab the nearest pack. Run for the ruins._ The adrenalin is so high now, I almost forget to be afraid. Forget how dearly I'd like to go crawl into a hole somewhere and weep.

Well, almost. But by second twenty, I'm eyeing a small pack a scant few yards ahead of me. The focus at least grounds me. An immediate task to be accomplished. It's a tiny little pack, bright red, like the color of one of Minerva's wigs. It can't have much inside, but it's something. Most importantly, it's far enough out that it shouldn't be in terribly high demand.

I'm sure I can nab it. Then make a beeline for the ruined city.

An explosion breaks my concentration. Dirt and something wet spatters my left side as though someone ran through a puddle. My ears ring and it's all I can do not to bolt. I manage to control the impulse and instead glance left.

The disk with Boy 12 directly to my left is still there. He all ready looks shaken, covered in dirt and blood. The disk with Boy 5 on the far side of him is also still there. Boy 5 looks just as rattled. The disk between them, where Girl 9 once stood is no longer a disk.

It's a crater.

She must have dropped her token. Or fainted. Maybe even stepped off, as not to give the others the satisfaction of killing her. No one has been so foolish as to try and jump the mines before the gong since I was small. Third or Fourth Games, maybe.

I'm shaking terribly now. Just like the day my name was called. I try not to think about the fact that the damp on my cheek and my clothes is actually blood. About how the field has just narrowed from twenty-four to twenty-three.

As the final seconds tick down, I find the little red bag again. As though staring at it will make it mine. I try not to shake so terribly. Try to even out my breathing.

The seconds run out.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Panem – " It's Julius Flickerman's voice again. Booming around us like the night of the opening ceremonies. "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The gong sounds.


	8. Arena

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,869

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Back again! I apologize for this particular chapter – I know it drags a bit. Things will pick up in the next chapter, I promise. Hang in there.

_Chapter Fun Facts:_ Boiling water is actually an effective purification method, but only in the event no other purification system can be devised. Again, they're supposed to be in the ruins of what was once Chicago. The canal is actually the Chicago River and the shoreline is what's left of Grant Park.

I still love and can always use feedback. Thanks! = )

_**8 - Arena**_

I run for the red pack.

A headlong dash. Completely oblivious to the others around me. I manage to pick up a small bundle just bigger than hand on my way for the pack.

A hand jerks me back by the hood of my coat just before I reach the red bag. It pulls me up sharp. I spin awkwardly out of the grip and down to the ground. Slide into the pack as my attacker, Boy 5, trips over my fallen form. I have a hold on the red bag now and I turn my attention to the ruins. Boy 5 has recovered quickly, but he's still on the ground. He catches my ankle as I struggle for my feet. I kick out with my free foot.

My boot connects with his face.

He releases me with a howl I care barely hear over the rising screams from the mouth of the Cornucopia. I stumble back to my feet and run. The screams and cries ring in my ears like Julius Flickerman's voice around us on the disks.

I try not to cry. I just keep moving. Zigzagging out into the ruined city. Farther and farther out until the screams begin to fade. Over the overgrown streets. Through trees and the husks of buildings.

I stop only when I can't hear the sounds of slaughter anymore. When the only thing in my ear is the ringing from Girl 9's explosion and the roar of tree frogs and locusts and the other wild things in the terrain.

I stop in what at one time might of been the crawl space below a house. Now, it's only a crumbling cement ring set three feet into the earth. The further from the shore, the trees have thinned a bit. The ruins are closer together here with only the odd maple sprouting from the crumbled sidewalk or from an overgrown back garden. The cover of the rubble isn't nearly as dense as I'd like. But it's enough.

I make sure nothing is crawling around in case the Gamemakers have gone with poisonous fauna again this year. Once moderately certain nothing slithering or crawly will kill me, I drop down into the corner of the ruined walls. Press my back to them in the event one my fellow Tributes followed me I won't be too terribly exposed.

I evaluate my collections.

The small pack turns out to be an awl. Wrapped in a plastic tarp, it's larger than the ones Grandfather uses to carve pipes. Just small enough to fit in my hand.

The red pack reveals about as much. A space blanket in a neatly folded square. A small metal canteen, which is, of course, empty. A compass on a line. A magnesium strip for starting fires.

All things considered, it isn't a bad haul.

Honestly, between the two packs, it's a damn good one. No weapons, of course. Those would have been packed neatly right in the mouth of the Cornucopia. I was not stupid enough to think I'd come out of there alive. Flynn might, but I certainly wouldn't have.

But I _am_ alive. At least for now. And that's not nothing.

I'm still shaking and the memory of the explosion and the screams threaten to bring up the tears I've kept down all day. I push down the lump in my throat anyway.

I have more important things to think about now. Like locating and boiling some water before night falls. Finding a decent campsite for the night. I don't have time to cry or worry about the others.

I repack my supplies. All but the compass, which I loop around my neck. I may not be able to spear fish, but years on Grandfather's trawler have taught me to navigate. I know how to use the stars, but the compass makes things infinitely easier.

From the compass and a vague memory of my trail here, I know that I am only just north west of the Cornucopia. There is the great lake on the east side of that, but there's at least three hundred yards of open ground between the lake and the cover of the city as far down the shore as I could see. Surely someone who got hold of a weapon or two this morning will have staked out the shore. Waiting for someone foolish or thirsty enough to break cover and go for the lake. There has to be something else. A stream. A river. Something. The lake has to be a last resort.

I decide to double back to the shoreline, to reorient myself with the Cornucopia and the lake. Just to be sure. Besides, if there are any streams or rivers feeding into the lake, I should be able to see their mouths from the shore. As I stand to go, the cannons begin to sound.

_One, two, three_ –

It almost sounds like the worst of storms back home. Where we'd huddle by the fire, counting the seconds between the lightening and the thunder.

I count here too. But it doesn't tell me how far off the storm is.

– _four, five, six, seven_.

The cannon quiets.

_Seven_. Seven dead. Seventeen left to play. I get moving.

This time, I take care to conceal my tracks. Treading lightly. Not breaking every single branch as I pass. Not barreling through the brush. Just as the survival instructors suggested. I'm still a bit winded from the run and my throat burns for water. I push on anyway.

The closer I get to the shore, the more I keep to the rubble. The shore is obviously near because the trees have thickened out again. The twisted heaps of buildings are farther apart. The roar of the tree frogs and the locust fades to a low hum. I can even hear the water lapping at the rocks on the shore.

I end up less than a mile above the Cornucopia. Still within earshot. I'm not stupid enough to wander out past the ruins of the city and the tree line. I climb up a pile of rubble just below one of the crumbling walls to peak over.

Someone _is_ holding the shore.

_Flynn_ is holding the shore. He's picked up a pike and is looking determined. He's got Lace and the 2s with him too. Alliances are not uncommon. They happen every year, but this is surely the first year so many of the strongest competitors have teamed together. It's either a genius strategy or will end swiftly in a brutal bloodbath.

Lace and the 2s are looking victorious. Hungry. Lace has gotten her hands on a set of throwing knives. Phaedra's picked out a short sword and a bow. Pentheus has knives too, but his real prize seems to be a mace. Together with Flynn and his pike, they look positively lethal.

They've staked out the Cornucopia as a home base. Piled most of the supplies deep in the golden horn. The grass is still red.

"Where'd that psychopath from your District run off to, Lace?" Phaedra asks. Her yellow jacket is all ready splattered with blood and her dark hair shines in the sun. She terribly pleased with herself. Like a cat with a fresh kill.

"I didn't see, but I sure hope it's close by." Lace says with a laugh. "I've been waiting all week to gut that lunatic."

"How about you, Moses?" Pentheus growls at Flynn. "Where's that little mouse from your District? We missed her this morning."

"Hiding, I imagine." Flynn shrugs. "Maggie's small, but she isn't stupid."

"We'll just have to pay her a visit, then won't we?" I don't like the snarl on Pentheus' face. Flynn shrugs noncommittally.

"Let's get to Doil first." He suggests. "He's a major threat. You saw what he did to that girl from 6. That kid from 7's a problem too – I saw him in training _and_ he managed to get out with an ax."

"He's right." Phaedra snorts. "The mouse can wait." I've heard enough. More importantly, I've seen what I needed. Just north of my hiding spot is a dip in the shoreline. A cut out in the rocks and the grass where the water pushes into the ruined city.

A stream.

I carefully climb down and head back the way I came. I want to put as much distance between me and Flynn's pack as I can. I don't think he'd kill me, at least not right off. We're decently friendly and he _would_ have to face everyone at home when he won if he skewered me early on. But there is no such social pressure stopping any of the others from gutting me as quick as they please.

Several hundred yards into my retreat, I veer north. I still hike out, away from the shore, but I want to run into that stream. Along the way, I pick up dried grasses from the crumbled pavement of the streets. Crunchy leaves and dry twigs. I do not need to waste daylight collecting tinder.

I stuff the twigs and the leaves into my pockets, my pack. The grass I start twisting into baskets while I hike. I'll need something to hold water while the metal canteen boils a batch.

I've got two small woven bowls by the time I hear the stream. I tuck them into my bag and pull out the awl. It isn't really a weapon, but it's at least got a point on it. There are 12 others apart from myself out there that don't have access to lake. Odds are, I'm not the only one to have spotted the stream.

I slow my pace as the stream nears. I also see that the stream isn't a stream at all, but an ancient canal. With sharp drops rather than rocky shores. I'm trying to keep as much to the buildings and trees as I can, but they all thin out. Leaving six yards of crumbling concrete and zero cover on either side. Just like by the lake.

I'll have to chance it.

I hike a short ways up stream. The cement walls disintegrate into giant slabs of concrete, falling into the water and eroding the shore the farther I go. Good for reaching the water. For drawing out Tributes into the open.

I find the easiest looking access route. Rotting cement slabs with enough grab for me to make a clean get away if the need arises. I pull out the canteen and the baskets under the cover of a twisted, bombed out building. Make sure my pack is secured tight across my back and my awl is stashed in my belt.

Then I run for it.

My throat is still burning from the first run and my hikes. I try dearly to ignore it as I fill the canteen. I stash the canteen into a pocket.

A cannon sounds as I begin to fill the little woven basket. It makes me jump and I nearly lose my grip on the thing. I catch it before the basket is lost to the current. But I fill it as quickly as I can. Slam the second upside-down on top like a lid and dart back to the cover of the rubble.

Sixteen left to play.

They're burning through us quickly this year. Eight in one day.

In case I'd forgotten, the cannon is a warning that I am not safe anywhere I go.

But I'm burning daylight so I try not to think about how dry my mouth is. About the recent cannon or where the others might be hiding out.

I move quickly. Carefully as not to spill my basket of water. Away from the canal until I can no longer hear it. Then, I pick another ruined building. Start a fire with the magnesium and the dry tinder I've collected.

I boil the canteen first. Just stick it right into the coals while I keep a lookout from what's left of a window.

It's all so quiet. Bird and bug and tree frog songs echo through the buildings and the trees that have overtaken the city. It strikes me how easily the rest of the world fell away. How quickly I've stopped thinking about, well, _everything_ that isn't Arena related.

All I can think about is what must come next. Boil the water in the basket. Find something worth eating. Establish a camp for the night. Stay the hell away from anything like a person or an animal.

It's kind of comforting.

I'm not on the verge of tears. I don't have time to cry or worry or feel sorry for myself. I scarcely have time to be afraid. I just have to do.

When the canteen's finished boiling, I fish it out of the coals with a stick. Let it cool a bit and use a handful of moss like an oven mitt to switch out the freshly cleaned water with the canal water.

It takes all I have not to chug down my cleaned water. I so badly want to and my mouth is bone dry. But I congratulate myself on excellent self control and drink only a little as the second batch boils. I distract myself from the temptation of water by collecting more of the tall grasses. I start in on a rectangle. The hope is that as I hike and collect still more of the grass, I'll be able to create a cover in a more neutral color for my red bag. I'd prefer not to have a bright red target literally on my back as we proceed into these Games.

When second round of water finishes boiling and cooling, I dump what's left in the bowl into the canteen. Repack the bowls and the canteen and the start of my grass bag-basket. I stamp out the fire, covering it in earth and a stray brick or two to hide my tracks.

Now, I need to start looking into shelter. I need to put a least a little more distance between the fire pit and me. But it's all ready late afternoon. I wasted a lot of time reorienting at the shoreline.

I don't regret it. If I hadn't, I might have never seen the canal. I wouldn't know about Flynn's pack. Both are valuable pieces of information.

That doesn't change the fact that it took hours of sun and countless calories.

I follow the sound of the canal, away from the shore. The more distance I can put between me and the lake, the better. I continue collecting and waving grass for my bag-basket along the way. I'm trying to select inconspicuous hunks from here and there, as not to leave a breadcrumb trail for any would-be hunters. But the red of my pack is something that needs to be remedied and soon.

Twilight hits before I find a decent shelter for the night.

The trees are all too thin to sleep in like the survival instructors encouraged. I'm not keen on just any old space in the open either. There's no telling what sort of creatures will come out when the sun sets. But then I spy it.

It's one of the ruined buildings. Metal mostly, warped and rusting and filled with piles of cement and ruined bricks. One metal wall has sagged down over one of the taller heaps of rubble. The effect is a small, metal cubby perhaps six feet up. Like a little metal cave large enough for perhaps two.

The sun is nearly gone when I scramble up the slope to the top of the rubble mound and the small shelter. Inside, there's nothing but ground cement. It's certainly not going to be the most comfortable night I've ever spent, but I suppose I've used up enough good fortune today that I can surely put up with it.

I flatten out the pieces I've been working on for my bag basket. Flatten the plastic over that. I pull up my hood, zip my coat and shake out the foil space blanket. It'll be a noisy night too. The rustle of my blanket and the tarp is much louder than I'd prefer, but they're all I've got. I'd rather risk discovery than hypothermia.

Just as I'm about to settle down, the anthem of Panem rings out. The sky is briefly illuminated with the seal before a message reading "The Fallen" hovers overhead.

Then the faces begin to appear. The eight dead Tributes.

Both 3s, Boy 5, Girl 6, Girl 7, Boy 8, Girl 9 and Boy 10.

The announcement of Boy 5's end shoots a pang of guilt through me. I kicked him. Wounded him at least enough to distract him. Get him killed. Girl 9 was gone before the gong. Girl 6 I knew was out thanks to Flynn. The others are not particularly surprising either.

Keepsie had called the end of the 3s straight off. Girl 7 and Boy 8 were both Twelves. Too small. Too slow. Boy 10 was a lot of talk, but little skill.

It doesn't matter.

My dreams are filled with cannons and my face in the sky.


	9. Allies

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,150

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry for yet another delay. I'm down to an exam and a design presentation now, so in a few short days I should be able to get back on something like a regular posting schedule. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far, _especially_ those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece. I love your feedback. ^.^

_Chapter Fun Facts:_ Asian carp actually are an invasive scourge in Midwest waterways. There's presently a concentrated effort to keep them out of Lake Michigan, they're so destructive to the native ecosystems. Mags' midsize fish is not unusual either – it's not difficult for them to weigh over 40 lb (the record bowfishing catch in the US is 92 lb). And yes, Rose is an Everdeen. District 12 isn't very big and surly Katniss' father had to learn how to make a bow from someone.

Let me know what you think! = )

_**9 - Allies**_

If there are any cannons overnight, I don't hear them.

Instead, I wake stiff and shivering just before dawn. My pack has proved a poor pillow. The space blanket alone was unacceptable in staving off the cold. This is an issue to address today.

The first order of business is painfully obvious. The achy growl from my stomach cannot be ignored.

Yesterday, anxiety was enough to discourage hunger. Today, it's too much to ignore that my last meal was breakfast with Saoirse. Almost twenty-four hours ago.

My first stop has to be the canal.

I repack my things and clear out of the little metal cubby. It might be worth it to return this evening, but I'll need to replenish my water source. I'm not going to risk the cubby's discovery by lighting a signal fire.

I hike out again. Northwest, to hit the stream, but not the way I came from last night.

The grass I've been using for my baskets won't do for a net, but I'm able to devise a hook and line from the bungee hook that had secured the tarp and awl and the string in my jacket hood. I dig up a couple of worms from under a crumbling bit of pavement on a side street. It might be a long shot. I don't even know if there _are_ fish in the canal. Let alone if they're the sort that would be interested in a worm. But without a net and short of any better bait, worms will have to do.

On the way, I set a snare or two with the creeping vine that climbs the tree trunks and the ruined structures. This is perhaps an even longer shot. The vine is tough, but it's dry and doesn't tie well. I haven't got a knife, so I have to hack the ends with the awl. It's tedious and messy, but it might be worth it if I nabbed even something small like a chipmunk.

I still make sure to collect tinder, too. I've been drinking water to stave off the gnawing hunger and I'm nearly out. The canteen can boil while I make a go of fishing.

When I finally reach the shore, it's all ready midmorning. I make the fire pit under cover of another ruined metal building. Set the canteen boiling with a fresh round of water while I cast my makeshift line from behind a particularly large hunk of cement.

Nothing happens.

I boil down a second batch of water and work on my bag-basket. I'm still feeling terribly exposed, down by the water. I'm not entirely sure what else to do. I haven't recognized any of the plants from training station on my hikes. There hasn't been hide or hair of anything like game either. No squirrels. No rabbits. No deer. Not that I have the knife to skin one, even if I _had_ seen one, much less caught one.

I finish off my bag-basket around noon. There hasn't been so much as a nibble on my line. I fish out the canteen from the fire. Stamp out the embers with sand and a hunk of cement from the shore. Go back to my line.

I try fresh bait. Some aquatic plants from the edge of the canal instead of worms. Move the line farther upstream, back towards my little metal cubby. It's more exposed here, but the water's darker. Deeper. I replace the bait and cast again. While I wait, I start collecting grass for a sleeping mat. A mat will leave the tarp free to act as a second blanket. If I'm lucky, the added cover of the tarp will keep me warmer tonight.

The fishing line finally twitches mid afternoon.

I immediately abandon my weaving and dive for the line. Haul it back with all my might. The catch puts up quite a fight, but I keep hold. I am rewarded with a carp. It's a big one too. Just bigger than my forearm and wriggling for all it's worth. I'm a little proud my line held.

I'm admiring my catch when my luck runs out.

An arrow pierces the shore to my right. Then another.

A fresh wave of adrenalin shoots through me. Anger at my own stupidity too. That I could be so inattentive. I grab my carp, my pack, pull my awl from my belt and dive for one of the cement slabs along the shore. One that's nearly in its original position, propped up by the water. It's poor cover, but it's not an arrow in my gut.

Some competitor I am.

Barely twenty-four hours in the Arena and I'm dead.

I can't say it's horribly surprising. I've known since before my name was even pulled that I never stood a chance. My family knew it. Thom and Minerva knew it. Saoirse and Dio and everyone else in the damn Capitol knew it.

That doesn't make it any less terrifying.

Possible actions fly through my brain. There seem to be only two. One, wait here for my fellow Tributes to close in and kill me off. Two, hop into the canal regardless of what might be swimming in it and try and make a run for it.

I'm eyeing the canal behind me when someone calls out.

"Ho 4!" I pause. Chance a look over my cement slab.

It's Boy 7. We haven't spoken since the night of the opening ceremonies, but I recognize him from Training. He's a Seventeen. Averaged sized, not beefy like Flynn, but not scrawny like me either. Tanned skin. Long, shiny, dark hair. Eyes like coal. He's got a much bigger pack than my little red one. As Flynn observed, 7 carries an ax. A hatchet too.

"Hey darling!" He waves. "Just the girl we were looking for! Wanna drop that little stick pin, baby doll?" He calls, waving to the awl in my hand. _We_. So he isn't alone. This is _not_ comforting. There's a grin on his face that I can't read. That doesn't do terribly much for my calm either.

"Don't look so scared!" He laughs. "We need you alive, doll!"

"A-A-Alive?" I call back. I don't trust him. I _can't_ trust him. But I don't jump for the water. Not just yet.

"Least for now." He says. He waves his companions out of hiding. Girl 12 and Boy 11. Girl 12 is the one with the bow. She's a Seventeen. Tall, slender. Loopy brown curls the color of chocolate. Gray eyes. Striking, rather like Shep. Boy 11 has a spear. He's only a Fifteen, but he's nearly the size of 7. Dark skin. Dark eyes. Thin and willowy. A runner.

"W-Why me?" I ask.

"A few reasons." Boy 7 says. "One, by now, I'm sure you've noticed the alliance on the shore." I nod. "Four of them, four of us." He continues. "Two, you lit out of the Cornucopia awful fast, so I presume you missed the part when that Doil fella turned into a raving lunatic."

"W-What do you mean?" I ask.

"He ain't just killin'." Boy 11 puts in. "He's getting' his jollies first."

"E-Excuse me?"

"Raped his kill to death." Girl 12 explains. "Only cut and run with that hulk from your district tried to skewer him."

"Ain't safe with him runnin' loose." Boy 11 agrees.

"We need all the help we can get." 7 nods. "But most importantly, three," He continues. 7 motions to the carp. I've the awl in one hand, but I'm still clutching the line and the fish in the other. "Not much food in here." He says.

"Plants ain't edible." Girl 12 says. "Only food comes out of the rivers, the trees and the packs the Gamemakers piled up back at the Cornucopia."

"_You_ have just acquired the first non-Gamemade meal." 7 continues. He nods again to my carp. "Here's the deal, 4." They're much to close to comfort now. I glance back again at the water. "You fish. Rose hunts. Badge here keeps that loony from raping us to death in our sleep. I'll keep the fire going. At least until the final eight or so."

"I- " I can't trust them. They need me to die if they ever hope to see their districts again. Just like I need them dead. There are no friends in the Games. 7 seems to see my mistrust. He smiles.

"Here." He pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. Throws it to me. I drop the awl to catch it.

_A slingshot_.

"You in 4?" He asks. I study them a moment. Then the slingshot.

I'm in.

We make a meal of the carp back under the cover of the trees. Carp are bony and not particularly good for much. They're really quite a menace in the freshwater deltas and not worth the catch. Waste of time and effort. Capitol citizens won't eat them so you don't get paid for pulling them in and risk a flogging for poaching if the Peacekeepers see you.

But we haven't had a decent meal since yesterday. My new allies have been snacking on apples pulled from the Cornucopia, but apples aren't protein like a fish. A bony carp is certainly better than no carp at all where calories are concerned. Boy 11, Badge, lends me a knife. Girl 12, Rose and 7, who's name turns out is Zeke, build a fire. They fill me in on what they know about the playing field and the Arena.

They had done well at the Cornucopia. Not as well as Flynn's team, but better than me. Rose made it out with the bow, arrows, a first aid kit and the bag of apples. Zeke got his ax, the hatchet and a pack with matches, a canteen and a sleeping bag. Badge picked up the spear, a knife and a small pack with the slingshot, more matches and a coil of rope.

Rose and Zeke had teamed up back in training when it had become clear that Flynn, Lace and the 2s were allying. The team was supposed to have included Rose's district partner, Sam and Zeke's too, the little Twelve named Hannie. Sam, since the explosion of Girl 9 at the start plate, has so far been nowhere to be found. Hannie had taken one of Phaedra's arrows to the back as they'd made a run for it after the bloodbath. I'm a little surprised to hear the audible sadness in Zeke's voice as he tells me this.

They'd picked up Badge just beyond the Cornucopia. His district partner had likewise gone AWOL. He'd seen what Flynn's pack and Doil had done. He hadn't been keen to strike it alone with the 2s, 1 and 4 all banded together and a psychotic madman on the loose. Signed on with Rose and Zeke after she'd bribed him with a couple of apples.

They'd decided to hunt me up after it was clear I was _not_ going to team up with Flynn and the others. Apparently, they'd even toyed with the idea of winning me back in training. My survival skills hadn't gone unnoticed, but because I'd spent so much time with Flynn and the others, Zeke and Rose had dismissed the idea. That I was a free agent had driven them to revisit the plan. My survival skills, on top of a solid shot at sponsors, thanks to Thom, make me a valuable asset. The deal was cinched when Badge had found the slingshot in his bag. They'd know it would take more than a few apples to win my trust.

Regarding the Arena, they have discovered there are a handful of smaller canals south of us. Some are blocked off and stagnant. Some are as valuable as the large one I have been using.

There are little to no edible plants. Grasses and ivy mostly. Some hemlock, if you're looking to take the easy way out. But nothing safe or even helpful. There are birds and fish. Possibly a few chipmunks and a squirrel or two. Wolves or coyotes too, but those aren't worth the effort of hunting.

Besides Doil's obvious insanity, Flynn's team is by far our greatest enemy. They hold most of the other supplies. They hold the beach. And, according to Rose who was on watch last night, they're hunting fire starters.

"Canon went off early this morning. Few hours before dawn." She explains. I nod, though I didn't hear it. "Even I saw the fire. Someone in a plaza just south east of our camp. Likely thought no one would be awake that late and it got awful cold last night."

"How could you tell it was them?" Badge asks.

"We were close last night and the buildings amplify the sounds – heard them congratulating themselves on the way back to the shore." Rose explains. Zeke whistles.

"They ain't as bad as that Doil fella, but I'll be damned if they ain't as crazy as mudbugs on a griddle themselves." He says. "They've been going at it like the Games are their damn _careers_ or something." Rose nods.

"Our mentor mentioned 2 was gettin' real tired of losing." She says. I nod too.

"Ours too," I say. "Said they were putting them to work." Rose snorts.

"This is why 12 loses, you know." She shakes her head. "Y'all start working early – we don't go into the mines until we're eighteen."

"You ain't doin' so bad, Everdeen." Badge reminds her. "Decent shot when you're actually trying to hit somethin'."

"Yeah, well, my brother's the smithy for them Peacekeepers. Got to test the things before they go to the Head for inspection." She snorts.

"They ain't got guns?" Badge asks. "Our Peacekeeper have all got them guns. And prods."

"They got prods, but you need the bows for the dog-mutts that roam the woods beyond the perimeter." She explains. "All drawn to sound. You get one with a gun, you bring out another four with the noise."

"Dog-mutts?" I ask. This is really the first time I've heard anything about other districts. We are taught their basic industries. Their locations in Panem. But nothing else.

"They let these dog-mutts run during the Rebellion." Rose nods. Takes a bit of an apple. "To sniff out resistance pockets hidin' in the woods around 12. Part of their Peacekeepin' duties is to kill the ones that get too close to the fence. Sometimes the boys even go huntin' them dogs for sport." Zeke nods.

"We got us mutts too. Bear-mutts mostly. Kept insurgents away from reaching logging outposts." He explains. "Tracker jackers too, lots of 'em."

"We got jacker nests something awful." Badge puts in. "Got 'em all over the orchards and in the fields. 4?"

"Some tracker jacker nests." I admit. "Lots of jabberjays."

"Hey, you get them mockers?" Rose asks. "We got them all over."

"11 too." Badge agrees. "Mockingjays nest in the orchards."

"No." I say. "Just the jabberjays. They're all feral now, just repeat any old thing to anyone." The others chuckle. We carry on like this. Laughing. Talking. Like we aren't being hunted by eleven of our peers. Like we aren't fully prepared to slit each other's throats.

A wave of sadness washes over me.

I actually _like_ them. Zeke and his sassy tongue. Practical Rose. Fearless Badge. If we weren't supposed to rip each other apart, I like to think we might even be friends.

When we finish our meal, we start hunting for shelter. I don't mention the little metal cubby I used last night. First, because it certainly wouldn't sleep four. Second because when this alliance ends, and it certainly will, I might need it.

Instead, we find an accidental lean-to. An ancient metal panel has fallen against the side of a brick building so that the resulting structure is a rudimentary a-frame sort of shelter. It's not raised, but there will be more than just me so I don't feel so uncomfortable about bunking down at ground level.

Badge pulls a second panel from the rubble to cover one end of the lean-to. I cover the interior with my grass mat. It's still only half finished, but its something. The boys are sharing the sleeping bag. Rose and I will share the space blanket and the tarp.

For dinner, we each take one of Rose's apples. They only have at best another couple of days in them and we are not going to waste food. When the sun sets we agree to divide into watches. I take first watch, until the moon is a quarter of the way across the sky. Then Rose, Badge and finally Zeke.

We don't dare light a fire.

The anthem plays not long after we hunker down. There's only the one fallen tribute tonight. The one I hadn't heard. Girl 10. The boys are snoring the moment her face vanishes from the sky. Rose insists she can't sleep and sits up with me on my watch.

"The moon looks the same." She says.

"As 12?" I ask. She nods. "Looks like 4 too," I say. She sighs.

"We ain't never going to see them again, you know." She says. "Our districts." I nod. "Even if we can kill that Doil fella before he gets to us, we don't stand a chance against your district partner and his goonies." She observes. I snort.

"Y-You've a better shot at it than me." I admit. "You can actually use a weapon. It always comes down to weapons in the end." It's Rose's turn to snort.

"You got sponsors – I sure ain't got that." She says. "They all want to see you come home and make beautiful Victor-babies with Thom Argon." She snorts another chuckle. Once again, I am reminded of Shep. "Is all that real?" She asks after a pause.

"What?"

"With Argon. His quiet love for you, un-confessed until wretched fate threw y'all together one last time?" She asks with a teasing grin. I shrug.

"I don't know." I say. "He doesn't talk to anyone anymore." I explain. "He'd tease me something awful when we were children, but since he won, he's moved up the shore and tries to avoid everyone." This is not a lie. Rose nods. "Of course, _I_ don't talk to many people either." She snorts another laugh.

"That stammer, yeah?" I nod. Rose snorts again. "Figures." She shakes her head. "You know, I think it's real." She declares after a pause.

"What? Thom?" I ask. Rose nods.

"Ain't nobody on earth can fake that look." She observes.

"What look?" I ask.

"That one he had one during that interview." Rose says. "That dopey look. You know, the one that's all stars and hearts and babies?" She explains. "Hard to hide, impossible to fake." She doesn't let me answer. "I hope you're worth it, 4."

I hope so too.


	10. Trap

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,071

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I'm now a college graduate, ladies and gentlemen. This means a whole lot of things, but most importantly, a semi-regular fanfiction update schedule. I'm aiming for once a week until this piece is finished or until July rolls around (in which case I will be out of the country begging graduate schools to let me in), whichever comes first. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far, _especially_ those of you who've reviewed, alerted and/or favorited this piece. I love your feedback. ^.^

_Chapter Fun Facts:_ Zeke and Rose introduce the term 'career' as applied to tributes. Also, there were questions as to which of Katniss' Everdeen relations Rose was – I was shooting for great-aunt, with Rose's blacksmith brother as Katniss' grandfather.

Let me know what you think! = )

**Warning!** This chapter contains some decently graphic violence (at least for me), particularly near the end. If that bothers you, I apologize and encourage you skip over the worst of it.

_**10 – Trap**_

There are no cannons overnight, but two sound between sunrise and noon.

The first sounds early. Shortly after sunrise. It must be far off because we hear only the boom of the cannon as we hike back to the canal to fish.

The second comes midmorning, after we've eaten. It's closer. So close, we hear the screams of a boy echo down the winding streets long before the cannon sounds.

"_Doil_." Zeke hisses. We break from the street, just to be safe and take cover in the rubble. Badge and Zeke stay low. In ruined doorways. Behind rusting metal scraps. Rose and I go high. She scales one of the scraggly trees like she's done it all her life. I scramble for the ruined second floor of a building.

The screams echo for what seems like an eternity. Terrified, agonized, the awful sounds are amplified in the buildings. We have to listen for what feels like hours, though it can't really be more than thirty minutes or so. It's a relief when the canon finally sounds.

Two more faces are in the sky that night. Boy 6 and Boy 9.

"We have to do something about Doil." Zeke declares after the anthem and the presentation of the fallen. "_Fast_."

The Gamemakers must be thinking the same thing because the storm rolls in overnight.

The rain starts during my watch. Light, little drops plink off the metal of our makeshift roof in a soothing drum. When I wake, it's pouring. Harder than it had been on Lottery Day. Lightening streaks across the darkened sky. Thunder rolls far too close for comfort.

The canal is rising quickly. From the mouth of our little metal shelter, I can see the water. Muddy, deep and fast. It's all ready breached the banks, the water creeping up to the buildings and the tree line where we are hidden.

We cannot stay here.

"Hate the rain." Badge grumbles as we begin packing. He's got quite a stream of choice and colorful curses for the weather too. I have to admit, I'm a little shocked. I've only ever heard that kind of language from the dockworkers at home. Sometimes Danny when Gram is out of earshot.

"Calm down, pal." Zeke slaps Badge's back playfully. "Remember, children are watching this program!"

"Your mother's watching this program!" Rose adds, handing me a half of an apple for breakfast. The water's too high and too fast for safe fishing, so the last of the apples will have to do for the time being.

"_My_ mother's watching this program!" Zeke laughs again. Rose splits an apple for both Badge and Zeke too. Zeke accepts his half and continues his rant. "She's all ready going to be shamed to death I've made an appearance on national television dressed as a sexy tree – I can't have her thinking I'm falling in with ruffians and reprobates." Rose and I laugh.

"_Your_ mother was shamed by the sexy tree suit? _My_ daddy had to watch me stand naked next to the undertaker's son on national television wearing nothing but coal dust, Beach." Rose reminds Zeke.

"All fine and dandy for you then, hanging around with heathens like Badge." Zeke returns indignantly. "You can't fall any farther, you little savage." Badge and I snicker. Rose makes a face "_I_, on the other hand, am still a loving and model son." Zeke continues, oblivious to the rest of us. "Got to set an example for the community." There is teasing in his voice. We all laugh this time.

"_You_ are a model son and a shinin' example for your community?" Badge snorts. "What kind of community are y'all livin' in up there in 7 anyway?" More laughter and Zeke snorts in mock offense.

"Do you hear this abuse, Maggie?" He asks me. "Criminal." Zeke shakes his head. We're all still chuckling as we zip our jackets and tie down our hoods. I wrap my pack, basket and all in the tarp. Zeke has me tuck the sleeping bag into my basket too. At least something will be dry tonight when we bunk down.

We have to get moving. The water is rising unnaturally fast. Getting caught in that current would surly mean death. I'm a strong swimmer, but if the current knocks me into one of those blocks of cement hiding under the mud and water, it's all over.

"They must want us on foot real bad." Rose observes as we crawl out into the downpour.

"Whadya mean?" Badge grumbles. We set out southwest, away from the canal and the lake.

"They're flushing us out like game." She explains. "Driving us out of hiding. Into the open."

"It's for Doil." I say. The others nod.

"Capitol audiences love them some violence, but he crosses a line." Badge agrees. "They're banking on him getting caught in them floodwaters."

"Or that he'll run into us or those professionals down by the lake and one of us'll finish him." Zeke agrees. We hike in silence for a while as the rain drives down in torrents and the wind kicks up.

"Why don't we?" Badge suggests, suddenly. We're only just out of earshot of the raging floodwater, but the rain is just as noisy on its own. We nearly have to shout to be heard over the roar of the rain and wind.

"Why don't we what, pal?" Zeke asks. It's only just midmorning and we haven't been out of last night's camp long. It doesn't matter. We're all nearly soaked to the bone. The jackets and the boots of the Arena uniforms are waterproof, but the pants aren't in the least. I can even feel the rain running down the backs of my knees.

"They'll cut it out with this here rain – why don't we hunt the son of the bitch down and get it all over with?" Badge proposes. He looks dreadfully unhappy.

"Let me get this straight, Mr. Evers – " Rose clarifies. "You'd like us to go _looking_ for the loony that's been tearing around the city _raping_ and _murdering_ our peers because you can't stand a little _rain_?"

"Why? You got somethin' else on your schedule, Miss Everdeen?" Badge shrugs.

"Huge risk to life and limb. Small chance of success." Zeke muses. "I love it." He declares with a grin. "I open the floor to possible strategies."

"How's this one for size?" Badge suggests. "We lure him out and Rose sticks him with an arrow from somewhere high up and far away."

"What's going to lure him out?" I ask. The moment the suggestion leaves my mouth I regret it. Zeke has got a look in his eyes and a smile on his face that both say he's got a wonderful, awful idea. I know what comes next.

"Doil likes pretty, breakable things, Maggie." Zeke observes. "You're _awful_ little and _real_ pretty, baby doll."

"Are you crazy or just plain stupid?" Rose aims a punch at Zeke's shoulder. He pouts and rubs at his new Rose-shaped bruise. "You can't ask something like that!"

"The bait and trap is all we've got on the table at the moment, darling." Zeke reminds her. "He's figured out by now that food's scarce – anything like a meal would be suspicious. But a poor, shivering fellow tribute starting a fire to dry out her socks from the rain, well." Zeke grins again. "That is just downright lucky."

"What about those career folks down by the lake?" Rose asks. "If the canals are rising, I'd bet the lake is too. What's to say a signal fire won't draw them too? Y'all know how much they love hacking up fire starters."

"An excellent point, my good man." Zeke says. "But, I'd bet my ax they'll be spending the day trying to rescue their resources from the floodwaters. If they happen to send a scout of two, Badge and I will hold positions on the ground to take care of it while you pick off Doil and Maggie plays bait. Maggie isn't afraid, are you?"

I _am_ afraid.

I'm terrified. I'm shaking again. Like the day my name was drawn and the first day of the Games. But I don't say so.

Instead, I help the others stake out a solid vantage point. We hike south, to the plaza where we'd last heard the screams yesterday morning. We pick out a decent spot in the northeast corner of the plaza. A section of building with enough of a second floor to shelter a fire. A section where I'm covered to the south by the building, to the west by Zeke and his ax, the east by Badge and his spear and to the north by Rose and her arrows. Badge gives me the knife, just in case. I tuck my slingshot into my belt and the awl into a jacket pocket. I still don't feel terribly safe.

"Make sure to scream. Real loud." Zeke instructs. We've collected a fair amount of tinder and have dug a little pit in the shelter of the ruined building. Rose has picked out a tree and Badge has staked out a position in the rubble. "Make it look good. Tears oughta do too. Cry for your mother or something."

"Cry for Thom Argon." Badge snorts a chuckle. "Maybe we'll get us a parachute. Surly he ain't going to ignore the tears of his beloved." Rose and Zeke laugh too and I can feel the blush creeping into my face.

"Aw, now, don't mean no harm." Badge pats my shoulder. "Whistle when we're in position, yeah?" Zeke and Rose nod.

"Then start the fire." I confirm.

"Then we wait." Rose finishes. "I'll whistle twice when he's dead and we'll meet Maggie back here."

"May the odds be _ever_ in our favor!" Zeke trills. He waves cheekily. They retreat to the cover of trees and rubble.

I am left alone with the fire pit.

One whistle. Two. And finally three.

I swallow hard. Try not to tremble too terribly as I pile tinder and the strike the magnesium strip.

The fire doesn't start easily. The tinder we'd collected had been the driest we could find. But in this weather, 'dry' is relative and it takes me several tries to get anything to catch. The flames come eventually, but it's mostly smoke.

I don't like it.

Sure, the extra smoke will draw Doil in, just as we've planned. But _the extra smoke will still draw Doil in_.

I keep my back to the cement wall and wait. I sit and shiver and try to be brave for the cameras and my own sanity. We are most certainly the top story today. Brave alliance attempts to thwart the twisted madmen. The world will be watching.

The fire, at least, is nice. Comforting warmth that begins to dry out the moisture wicking sport fabric of my Arena uniform pants. A small reprieve from the chill of the driving rain. But the smoke still billows as I add on more tinder and the driest branches we could find. I'm sure it won't be long until someone spots it.

I'm not wrong.

"Hello, little 4." The voice comes from the ruined doorway of my shelter. The smooth, wicked one I remember from the interviews. From training. I nearly jump out of my skin.

He's closer than I'd anticipated. Scarcely three feet from my fire. _Much_ too close and grinning down at me with an icy mirth and something like triumph in his sharp face.

"D-D-D-" The sounds from my throat are nothing but a choked garble as I stumble to my feet. Doil smiles a hungry, slimy sort of smile.

"Oh little 4, I was hoping I'd find you first." He says. "Pentheus really doesn't deserve you." He continues. I'm not entirely sure what he means by this, but at this point I don't care. Doil's closing in and I want to know how long it takes Rose to notch an arrow. He's a lot bigger up close. Not quite as massive as Flynn or the 2s, but he's certainly larger than me. His blonde hair is wet, almost greasy from the rain. His dark eyes are cold and hungry, even though there's a smile on his face. "Now, now, little 4, you won't be needing that." He nods to the knife in my hand. I hadn't even noticed I was clutching it.

"S-S-Stay away." I manage. "Y-Y-You stay away f-f-from me." Doil smiles again. He steps closer and I back into the corner of the ruined structure. I stretch out the knife for good measure but I'm shaking so terribly, there isn't a chance the thing would do me a whole lot of good.

"Stay away?" Doil laughs, cold and harsh. "But little 4, I've just found you! And we'll have to put on a show for your darling mentor – I'm sure he'll enjoy this afternoon's programming – "

Doil dives for the knife in my hand, slamming me back into the wall. Panic nearly over takes me. I try to scream, but only broken little sobs come from my throat. His hands are around my wrists. His face is in my neck. I kick out. Try free my knife hand.

_Come on Rose, shoot_.

"Good, little 4." Doil breathes into my neck. Still, no arrow comes. "Scream for me – scream!" He slams my wrist back against the wall. The sudden sharp contact with the cement forces my fingers open. The knife hits the ground and panic wells up. "Come now, 4, what did we talk about, little one? Scream!"

I scream. It's really more of a choked sob. But it's enough for Doil. He even seems to relish in the sound.

"Good, little 4." He says again. His entire weight is on me now. He may not even be as big as Badge, but he's still bigger than me. There's something single-minded about him too, as though his whole being is focused solely on hurting me without a care to his own self.

It's positively terrifying.

I try to kick out. To fight. But an overwhelming terror, more pervasive than the one that had swept over me at the start disks has begun to overtake me. I struggle, but all I can think of is how Doil is still very much alive and there has been neither hide nor hair of my allies. Doil is certainly within range of Rose's arrows. Even throwing range of either of the boys' chosen weapons and there has most assuredly been time to take advantage of that. Surly they wouldn't let Doil do this to me. Let him kill me so horribly. They may need me as dead as I need them to win this thing, but they aren't monsters. They'd kill me themselves before they'd let Doil have his way, I'm sure.

Then, over the fear, it occurs to me.

Something must have gone wrong.

I can't even begin to imagine what precisely. I don't want to. Regardless, it means I'm on my own.

With Doil.

Doil pins my wrists together and forces back the hood of my jacket. He's having a grand afternoon, I can tell.

"Scream, 4." He demands again into my hair. I can't. I choke again and wriggle in his grasp. "Scream!" He orders harshly, forcing me to meet his eyes.

I'm still choking out garbled sounds, but my knee finally connects with his groin. He howls in pain and releases me to clutch at his wounded pride. I'm so shocked to have actually hurt someone, even someone as cruel as Doil that my knees give out and I sink down.

My shock doesn't last long. Adrenalin and some basic self preservation instinct kick in and replace it with an order to run.

_Run now_.

A hand catches my ankle before I can get too far. The fall to the ground knocks the wind from me, just like the first day at the Cornucopia. Except when I look back, it isn't Boy 5 hanging onto my ankle, but Doil. And he's certainly not after a supply pack.

He is positively livid. His face has contorted with rage into something vicious and terrifying. I kick out again, but Doil is faster. He jerks me back, beneath him. He climbs up over me, using his weight to keep me pinned. He's gotten a hold on my fallen knife too.

"That wasn't very nice, 4." He snarls. "And here we were going to have some fun – " The look in his eyes is almost inhuman. Cold and full of rage as he traces my face with the edge of the blade. It leaves a trail of pain and the warm bubble of blood in its wake. My hands push at his chest, his shoulders and his face. As if I can simply push him away. Failing that, my fingers scramble for purchase in the rubble beside me. Hoping to find something useful. A rock. A branch. _Anything_ to use as a weapon.

But there is nothing.

This is it.

Not that first day on the start disks or that day by the canal with Zeke and Rose and Badge, but here. I hope Danny hasn't let the twins see this. Or Grandfather. Gram might be able to stomach this particularly grisly end of mine, but it will destroy Grandfather. I hope that Fillipa covers her ears. That Saoirse and Thom, even Minerva Holmes won't blame themselves for failing to bring home a tribute. That someone good wins. Rose or Badge or Zeke, even Flynn. Just not _Doil_.

I'm crying now. From pain. From fear. This is the end.

Doil has my jacket open when my fingers find the awl in my pocket. He's so focused tugging at my clothes and carving shallow patterns across my breastbone with the knife that he doesn't seem to care what my hands are.

Somewhere between a flash of hope at getting a hold on the awl and the agony of the swirling cuts across my skin, I stop thinking properly.

I just do.

I slam the awl into Doil's neck. Blood gushes out over my hand. A sickening gurgle comes from his mouth. There is something like surprise on his face as I keep the tool lodged firmly in his throat.

He chokes. Drops the knife.

Somewhere, a cannon sounds.


	11. Lull

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,543

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I've gotten some very positive responses to the last chapter and I'd like to thank everyone for their support thus far – I'm so glad to hear your thoughts and support. I'd also like apologize for this chapter – it's kind of a dull one, particularly after the last one. Sorry everyone. It'll pick back up again, I promise.

_Chapter Fun Facts:_ "What's the story, morning glory?" is a line from the song "Telephone Hour" in the musical _Bye, Bye, Birdie_.

_**11 – Lull**_

I wake back in the little metal cubby where I spent the first night in the Arena.

It's disorienting. Surly the last three days with Zeke, Badge and Rose, with Doil and the storms couldn't have been merely a horrible nightmare.

_Should I be so lucky._

I'm not.

My shirt and my jacket are missing and my chest is sloppily bandaged. I'm tucked into Zeke's sleeping bag with a bunched up green jacket for a pillow. Beside me, sits the woven grass sleeping mat I'd made on Day Two. Beyond that, three packs – mine, Zeke's and a yellow bag I don't recognize are – stacked in one corner of the cubby. It's mid-morning and outside the cubby's opening, the rain still falls. It's slowed a bit to a persistent drizzle, but the drop still plink off the metal roof in a steady drum.

I have absolutely no idea how I got from the plaza to this place.

"Look at you, all awake!" Zeke pops his head above the top of the rubble pile and grins at me. He's looking soaked and particularly thin. His long hair is still tied back, but the few wisps around his face are plastered to his forehead and thinning cheeks. "What's the story, morning glory?" He asks, climbing in and settling on the grass mat.

"Z-Z-Zeke." I manage. My voice wavers. It sounds small, unused.

"Alive and kicking, baby doll." He says, grinning. "Brought you something." Zeke holds up a canteen before plunking it down beside my head. "Been boiling the rain water – never know if the Gamemakers would send acid rain, just to shake things up." I nod, bonestly, as the reality of the situation settles on me (_killed someone, I Maggie Benoit, have killed someone_), I don't particularly care what Zeke or the Gamemakers might be up to. Instead, I try to steady out my voice for some answers.

"H-How-? W-What-?" I can't seem to pick a question. It doesn't matter and Zeke seems to know what I'm after.

"You been out for three days, Maggie girl." He says. Zeke lays on his side and has propped himself up on one elbow to look me in the face. "Blood loss got you."

"W-W-What happened?" I finally manage. "At the plaza?" Zeke's face falls.

"What do you remember?" He asks.

"D-D-Doil." I say, trying to ignore the shaking dread at the memory and the overwhelming guilt of what I have done. "I k-k-killed him before he killed m-me." Zeke smiles faintly.

"Yes you did, baby doll." Zeke prompts. "What else?" I think back to where my memories get fuzzy.

"C-C-Cannons, there were cannons." I say.

"Anything else?"

"I-I-I was bleeding." I continue. "But there was so much of it I couldn't tell what was mine."

"That it?" Zeke presses.

"Yes." I say. "Everything started to blur after that."

"Yeah, well, you had yourself a glorious war wound that had you bleeding like a stuck pig." Zeke confirms. "Surprised you remember that much, baby doll."

Then he tells me what I missed.

He, Rose and Badge had taken their positions, just as we'd planned. They'd seen the smoke from my fire, but they hadn't seen Phaedra and Pentheus on the hunt. Phaedra had caught Rose with an arrow before Badge and Zeke could stop her. Rose had fallen from the tree, still alive, but in no position to shoot Doil as we'd planned, leaving me to fend for myself. Badge had an impressive bought with Phaedra when he and Zeke had gotten close. Zeke had gotten into quite a sparring match with Pentheus. Phaedra had eventually killed Badge in close quarters with her sword, but Rose had used the last of her strength to stick an arrow in Phaedra's throat. Zeke had gotten a good stomach wound in on Pentheus when Doil's cannon, followed by Badge's, Phaedra's and Rose's, had gone off. Pentheus had turned tail at his injury and the death of his ally. Zeke had taken off to find me, half conscious, still crying and covered in blood. Apparently, I'd passed out entirely in the rush to get as far away from the plaza as we could. Zeke had found this place and bandaged me up with help from Rose's first aid kit.

"Oh," Zeke says. He reaches behind him to dig in the packs. He tugs out a small metal cube with a parachute attached before turning back to face me. _A sponsor gift_. "And this too." He holds it up for my inspection. "Some quick mend, antibacterial wonder cream from the Capitol. Came for you after we got here."

"How can you tell it's mine?" I ask as he cracks it open. Zeke holds up a little laminated note printed in precise mechanical letters.

_Sponsors want to see Victor-Babies_.

"Now, I know I'm real good-looking." Zeke says, handing me the card. "But somehow, I don't think I'm Cobb's type."

I smile sadly and study the note. This is an incredible gift – medicine beyond basic first aide is costly, particularly after Day Three. I can only imagine what this cost Thom. Even through the aching guilt over Doil's death, I can't help the flash of gratitude. To Thom, to Zeke.

"Thank you, Zeke." I say and I'm proud my voice does shake.

"Yeah, well, somebody good's got to win this thing." He says, taking the canteen from beside me. He takes a long drink and sighs. "Ain't too many good souls left." He says sadly. I don't have to ask what he means.

"Oh, Zeke –" My voice cracks and I can't stop it. The tears are back in my eyes and my throat tightens. Zeke doesn't have to ask what's brought on my tears either.

"They were good eggs." He says. "Badge and Rose – deserved a lot better than what they got." I choke out a sob, which makes the cuts on my chest burn. Zeke takes my hand and squeezes it. "I let them down." I wipe at the tears with my free hand and he continues. "I should have seen it coming."

"Y-Y-You couldn't have." I garble out through the tears. I squeeze Zeke's hand too, but I'm not sure how comforting it is.

"Don't make me any less guilty, baby doll." He sighs, but pulls himself together. "Suppose that means one of us will just have to win for them." Zeke brightens.

"O-O-One of us." I echo. It's going to be Zeke, I'm sure of it. I only got out of my scrape with Doil by the sheer good fortune of having the awl in my pocket and an adrenaline fueled self-preservation instinct. Zeke fought Pentheus and came out alive by his own merits. That certainly isn't nothing. I remember what Pentheus did in training. He's a force to be reckoned with. To match him in fighting skill is nothing short of impressive.

"Now, how you feeling?" Zeke asks me cheerily. He's trying to change the subject. "Better? Less like dying?"

"Tired." I admit. "My chest burns too." I say.

"Think you'll be able to move tomorrow?" He asks.

"I don't know." I shrug, but instantly regret it as my cuts burn against the gauze of my bandage.

"We'll let you rest today and test your feet tonight." Zeke declares. "I don't want to stick around too much longer – the Gamemakers gave us a day to lick our wounds and two to starve out some of the loners out there into doing something stupid like looting from the Careers." He explains. "Girl 8 and Girl 11 tried it yesterday afternoon – lit some fires to draw Flynn and Lace out. Thought they could take an injured Pentheus themselves and got their pictures in the sky for their troubles."

"You saw?" I ask and Zeke nods.

"Been spying from the ruins." He explains. "With Doil gone, they're the biggest threat." Zeke continues. "And the Gamemakers won't give us much more time to lie low like this." I nod and mull it all over a moment. I run the list of Tribute in my head.

"Seven." I observe.

"What?"

"We're down to the final seven." I elaborate and Zeke nods.

"Yeah – food's getting tougher to come by." He explains.

"It was never _easy_." I remind him.

"Yeah, but the canals are still high and the lake's churning. Doubt even you could fish something out of them. Rain drove the fowl to ground and the rodents to nest, so hunting's out too." He explains. "I've been rationing out the crackers and dried meat out of Doil's pack, but it's a good thing you've been out and not terribly interested in eating, because we'd be starving by now." He observes.

"Zeke?" My voice is small again, but at least the stammer seems to be under control. "Shouldn't we . . . split up?" I ask. "We said final eight – Zeke – I – " A fresh wave of guilt washes over me at the thought of what I've done mixed with a streak of horror at the thought of what I will have to do. "I-I-I don't want kill you Zeke." His laugh is wry and empty.

"Baby doll, I don't want to kill you either." He admits. "But I don't want Pentheus taking his sweet time carving you up either. My mother would never forgive me for leaving you to that nut." I nod.

We don't speak much the rest of the afternoon. The grief and rising stakes of the Game must be getting to Zeke because he _always_ has something to say. Instead, he stays quiet and lets me nap, absently sharpening his axes while I doze.

Around late afternoon, Zeke wakes me. He helps me out of the sleeping bag.

"Going to need you moving again, baby doll." He tells me again as I teeter unsteadily down the gravel slope. I have to lean heavily on his arms and our pace is agonizingly slow. "How's this treating you?"

_Treating me_? The cuts on my chest burn against the bandages. My head spins. My knees wobble. I'm perfectly miserable. But I don't tell Zeke so.

"It's all right, I suppose." I lie. Zeke laughs.

"That why you're looking a might green, Maggie-girl?" He asks me with a grin that is much more like the Zeke I am accustomed to.

"I'll be all right." I say again. Zeke chuckles again and shakes his head.

"I reckon you will." He agrees. "But it's going to be another day or so." Zeke announces. "Can't move fast enough right yet. Let's change those bandages – get some more of that miracle cream on your cuts."

Changing the bandages is a lot easier said that done. Twilight has begun to fall, so the light isn't great. Zeke has to carefully cut away the old ones using Badge's hunting knife. That knife is meant for gutting fish and game. Not the little precision cuts for first aid. It's just lucky that the Capitol medicine has turned the elaborate swirling patterns Doil had carved across my breastbone into puckered, pink scar tissue. The new skin is delicate and burns when a layer of cream and fresh gauze touch it. I grimace, but don't say anything.

"Look at you, baby doll." Zeke grins as he loops the bandage around my shoulder to keep it in place. "Tough as nails."

"Not terribly." I protest.

"Taking it like a champ." He insists and Zeke smiles again. "Bet your folks are real proud."

"I haven't got folks." I admit. "Just brothers and my grandparents."

"Still bet they're proud of you." He encourages as.

"I doubt it. I'm certainly not." I say. The guilt rises in my stomach again. "Z-Z-Zeke – I _killed_ someone." I'm surprised at the sob that comes out. Zeke pats my shoulder comfortingly.

"So did I baby doll." He admits. "I can't imagine we'll ever feel good about it and it sure don't make us any less guilty."

"Zeke – " I choke again, from the guilt and the sting of my cuts.

"I know." He sighs. "You know, I thought it'd be easier." He admits, clumsily tying off the end of my new bandage. "I mean, it's the Games – we all know the stakes. Kill or be killed and all that." Zeke shakes his head. "Still don't stop a bit of your soul from breaking away when you do it." The tears are coming again. I snuffle and nod. The pain in Zeke's face fades as he screws back on his cheery mask.

"Chin up, baby doll." Zeke says. "How about you give those crackers a test? See if you can keep 'em down? You've not had anything but water in days." He encourages, pulling the yellow pack to us. He produces a pair of crackers for me, a strip of jerky for himself and hands me one of the canteens. Rations must be getting particularly skinny if this is the extent of our dinner.

A cannon fires as he hands me my crackers. I jump and nearly drop them at the sound. A fresh memory of the plaza, of Doil nearly overtakes me. It must show on my face because Zeke pats my shoulder encouragingly.

"Easy, baby doll." Zeke says.

We fall silent after that, munching our meager meal and listening to the drumming of the rain on our shelter and leaves of the trees. The anthem is audible over the sound and we peer out to see the fallen tribute.

It's Rose's district partner, Sam. His picture is blurred by the clouds and the raindrops, but he is still recognizable.

"Poor guy." Zeke shakes his head. "Got spooked at the Cornucopia and left us, but he was a good fella. In Training." He explains. I nod as Sam's face vanishes from the sky and we are left in the dark.

"Zeke?" I ask finally.

"Yes?" He asks with a long pull from his canteen.

"When you win – " I swallow a sob. "Will you tell my grandmother I'm sorry?" I ask.

"Don't rule yourself out yet – " Zeke begins, but I cut him off.

"Before I left." I explain, a little bit proud how strong my voice is. "She told me not to change. To stay me." I have to swallow another sob. This one burns and I have to take a drink from my own canteen. "I don't think I'm the same person I was when Minerva Holmes pulled my name out of that bowl." I admit and I'm not. The Lottery seems like a thousand years ago. Another lifetime from today, where I sit, in a little metal hole in the ruins of an ancient city, washed in guilt and fear with an ax-wielding charmer. "P-P-Please Zeke?"

Zeke looks ready to reprimand me for my defeatist attitude, but he seems to think better of it. He sighs and smiles fondly at me.

"I promise." He agrees. "But only if you'll tell my mother that I really tired to come home and that she can't give up." Zeke insists. "I'm all she's got, you know, but even if I die, she can't give up. You have to tell her. Deal?" He holds out a hand to me. I shake it.

"Deal."


	12. Run

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,496

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Continuing thanks to everyone for their input and support! I promised things would pick up and they begin to here. We are coming up on the Games' finale, after all.

_Chapter Fun Facts:_ Mags compares the mutts to alligator gar. Alligator gar are one of the largest species of gar, found in the Lower Mississippi River Valley and the southern Gulf states and can be between 8 and 10 feet long at maturity and weight over 200 lbs. Later, the song Zeke sings at the end is the variation of Bilbo's walking song found in _The Fellowship of the Ring_; Chapter One "The Long Expected Party". Two other variations of this song exist in Tolkien's canon – one in _The Hobbit_ and another in _The Return of the King._

Let me know what you think! = )

**Warning!** This chapter contains some decently graphic violence, perhaps not as intense as past chapters, but still. If that bothers you, I apologize and encourage you skip over the worst of it.

_**12 – Run**_

We only get half a day more in the cubby before things fall apart.

By that afternoon, I'm moving well enough to make the hike to Zeke's observation point to see precisely what is happening.

Flynn's alliance, the one Zeke calls the Career pack, is dissolving.

Zeke and I bunk down at the top of a pile of rubble, half hidden by a crumbling wall to watch. It looks like Lace decided to end things sometime during the night and took a stab at an as-yet-on-the-mend Pentheus. They spar on the beach with murderous gleams in their eyes. Flynn must have been out scouting for fire starters because by the time Zeke and I peer over the ruined wall, Flynn's off to one side, trying to calm them down.

It isn't working.

Lace and Pentheus ignore Flynn completely. I can hear them hurling insults at one another. Shouting about how they'll kill the other and insulting the one another's districts. Lace is in fine form, but Pentheus is still hurting from his fight with Zeke. I can tell he's weak, but he's still holding his own. Flynn eventually abandons all attempts at reasoning and I'm not sure if it's because his allies won't listen or if he's done the math and figured out this is the inevitable end to their partnership. Instead, Flynn decides to let his allies fight it out, picks a supply pack from their hoard and makes a run for it.

Even through her fight, Lace notices and she seems to mind more than a little.

She gets in a solid blow to Pentheus's nose. Not hard enough to kill him, but enough to stun him and Lace takes the opportunity to run after Flynn calling him coward and all manner of rude things. Flynn doesn't respond. He's got a weapon and a supply pack and he isn't turning back.

Their chase comes dangerously close to our hiding spot. Flynn barrels into the brush and the ruined city, just past our rubble pile, Lace behind him. Zeke and I press down onto the bricks as they pass.

"Time to go, Maggie girl." Zeke hisses as they go and I nod. Zeke hefts his ax and winks at me. "Take the long way back." He instructs. "Got to make sure we aren't followed." I nod again. "You got the knife?"

I shake my head and pull the awl from my pocket. It's still not exactly a weapon, but it's proved far more valuable than even my slingshot. Zeke grins at me and nods.

"Good luck baby doll." He whispers.

"Good luck Zeke." I whisper back. He winks at me one last time.

"Take a five count and take off." He instructs and then Zeke sneaks down our rubble pile and takes off into the crumbling streets. I can see him make a wide circle south while the echoes from Flynn and Lace filter back from due west.

I check on Pentheus before I run. He's pulled himself together from Lace's last hit, but doesn't seem too keen to take off after his former allies. Rather, he looks a bit pleased with himself and retreats to the Cornucopia and the remaining supplies. There aren't many left, but there are still certainly more than any of the rest of us have got. Pentheuse, for once, seems perfectly content with the lull in the bloodshed. Mostly, he just looks pleased with himself to now control the supply hoard all on his own while he finishes recovering.

The notion of his decently sized collection of rations is mildly disconcerting. If the Games go on too much longer, he'll starve out the rest of us for sure. But for now, he can go right on ahead and guard his hoard. That's just fine by me. It means one less person I might run into on my run back.

Well, perhaps not _run_.

I wait the five count as Zeke instructed. I carefully shimmy down the pile of rubble. But it only takes the short sprints between spots of cover for me to feel the toll of three days with nearly no food and excessive blood loss on my body.

I'm wheezing and dizzy. My limbs are weak, sluggish and I can all ready tell the first hike out here was an overexertion. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping me from keeling over, I'm sure of it, and it's only just enough to keep me moving.

Once I'm out of Pentheus's possible line of sight, I head for the canal. It's slow, slow going. I'm trying to make sure my tracks are more or less covered, sticking to the cracked cement when I can and deep puddles that will hide footprints when I can't. I can only hope that Lace and Flynn's chase is the top story today so that I can inch back to my shelter without the Gamemakers' intervention. Goodness knows I do not need the rain to worsen or a mutt to come my way.

To make matters worse and the trek even slower, I have to rest at every other tree or ruined wall. My breathing is heavy and even through my scars are nearly healed, the friction against the gauze still burns. But I try to be brave like Grandfather wanted, tough like Zeke thinks I am. I try to keep the discomfort out of my face and hike until I can hear the floodwaters.

When I can see the muddy currents at the ends of ruined streets, I change course and shoot west towards the shelter. I keep to the trees and the ruins. I take things one ancient, crumbling block at a time, still stopping for rests, still covering my trail.

That's when I hear the scream.

I instantly drop into the shelter of a ruined building. The awl is back in my hand. Another scream rings out, closer, down towards the water. I creep further into the ruin and peek down at the canal through a low spot on a crumbling wall.

The screaming is nearly constant now.

It's Girl 5, the yellow haired Sixteen and the only remaining Tribute I have not actually spoken to.

The Games have not treated her well.

She's on the opposite bank of the canal farther up in the flooded ruins, but I can tell she's thin. Painfully so. Even from here, I can see her collarbone and the hallows of her face. She's been in a fight or two as well. There's a healing cut that runs into her hair. Her shirt is bloodied and tied around her calf like a bandage. The muddy water doesn't even come to her knee, but it's all ready stained red around her and she clutches what's left of a lamppost. She kicks and flounders in the water, screaming and lashing out at something lost in the murky red of the floodwater.

Then I see it.

A long, leathery body breaks the surface of the water. Thick, knobby, brownish green skin rises from the water. The knots on its back look like the awful faces of the gar that terrorize the estuaries back home.

Somehow, I get the impression that this creature is far more terrible than the gar.

It's vaguely reminisce of the crocodiles and the alligators the grandparents in 4 talk about. The massive predatory amphibians the size of a man who once stalked the inlets and beaches in our District. Fearsome things mothers warn naughty children about. _Don't swim in murky water, stay out of the swamps – the alligators will get you_.

This monster has to be a mutt version of those beasts.

It's enormous. Bigger than any living thing I've ever seen with a heavy flat head and a powerful tail. It's wider too and has squatty legs instead of fins like the gar. The whole beast is maybe three times the size of Girl 5. Black eyes sit on top of its head, glaring hungrily at Girl 5. The row and rows of teeth in its long, menacing jaws are sunk deep into her all ready injured calf.

It's toying with Girl 5.

It lets her kick and shout, just holding tight as she tires herself out. Once she's sufficiently worn out, the croc-mutt gets to work.

It only takes one sharp shake of the monster's head to loose her from the rusting lamppost. Then, the terrible thing readjusts its bite, getting her higher on her middle instead of just the leg. When the monster begins rolling, turning over and over in the water, I have to close my eyes, but I catch sight of a second awful monstrous croc-mutt cutting through the water towards the scene before I do.

There are growls and splashes from the floodwater. Girl 5 isn't screaming anymore. At least, none that I can hear and when her cannon (_five, final five_) finally sounds I'm not sure if it was blood loss or drowning that finally got her.

I brave a look back after the cannon sounds and the splashes die away. The croc-mutts have vanished. All that's left of Girl 5 is a red blossom in the water and a little line of string tied to the lamppost.

She must have been trying to fish. The blood from her calf wound in the water must have drawn them in to attack. It's not a comforting thought.

I'm shaking as I leave the ruins by the bank. Not just from exhaustion either. There's a fresh shot of fear in there too.

Final five Tributes including four (counting Zeke) particularly lethal individuals who are not above hunting each other down. Rain and wind, which has been picking up all day, driving away all food and rising the water levels. And now, croc-mutts in the floodwaters, which are drawn to blood.

It's a terrifying new piece of information and ten years of watching Hunger Games has taught me that the worst of the mutts come out for the finale. We are coming up very quickly on the end.

This new horror and the adrenaline rush at the thought of the approaching end get me moving. I cut south a ways. Away from the floodwaters and the awful end of Girl 5 I have just witnessed. It'll take me longer to get back, but at the very least it'll throw off any would-be followers to our shelter.

"Ho 4 – just the girl I was waiting for!" The voice makes me jump again and I make sure the awl is in my hand before I spin to find the source.

It's Zeke.

_Oh, Zeke. No._

"W-W-W-" I can't even get out the words. Tears and grief overwhelm me almost immediately at the site of him down. I drop the awl and sink to my knees beside him.

Zeke is a mess and I don't have to be a doctor to know that I will never be able to clean him up. He's propped himself up against a ruined wall because his injured leg can carry him no further. There's a cut in his thigh. A deep one at a funny angle that has him positively soaked in blood. He's paling fast.

Zeke is dying and I have absolutely no idea what to do.

"Hey, hey baby doll." He shakes his head and waves me closer. I oblige him and take his outstretched hand. My free hand hovers over the cut on his leg. I can't decide if it's worth it to apply pressure. Zeke has tied a strip of his shirt above it as a makeshift tourniquet, but even I can tell it isn't doing much good. "Ran into your Career buddies – 1 got me good with one of her throwing knives before she lit back out after your district pal." He explains, pressing his ax into my idle hand. I set it to the side and give his hand a squeeze. "I got her back, but she got me one better, so you listen up." Zeke continues.

"Z-Z-Z-" I am a stammering, tear-streaked mess. Shaking. Pathetic. Useless. Clutching at his hand, fearful and weeping while Zeke is the one with the right to be so.

"Hey, hey." He repeats. "Hey, Maggie-girl. You listen up." He says again. "You got to win this thing for me, okay baby doll?" I choke and try to answer. All that comes from my mouth is a garbled mess of broken sounds. "You got to win. You got to tell my mother it'll be all right and that I tried to come home, okay?" Zeke's voice shakes too. There are tears on his face.

"N-N-No-" I finally manage. I hope I sound confident. Comforting. But even I don't believe the words when I say them. "N-N-No – we'll get you o-o-out of here and all p-p-patched up and –" Zeke just shakes his head and touches my cheek with his free hand.

"No, baby doll. Ain't got nothing worth patching up." He's crying now too. "Now you swore. You swore you'd tell my mother I tried. So you win this." Zeke says. "You win, Maggie-girl. Tell my mama I tried and that I love her. Then you go home and make some beautiful Victor-Babies with Thom Argon." He cracks a smile at me. "Promise?"

"I-I-I-" My voice is nearly gone again and the tears blur my vision, but I nod. "P-P-Promise." I manage, wiping at my cheeks. Zeke smiles at me again. His face is horribly pale and his hands shake, but he pulls me in for a hug.

"One last thing?" He asks into my hair.

"A-A-Anything." I snuffle as he releases me.

"Sit with me?" Zeke requests. His voice isn't shaking any more, but mine has vanished entirely, given way to choking sobs. I nod and Zeke pats the ground beside him. I settle against the ruined wall so that we're shoulder to shoulder and he pulls my hand into his lap.

We sit like that. Together and quiet, while the rain drums on the leaves and the crumbling city around us until Zeke squeezes my hand weakly and clears his throat. He sings. A halting, hoarse little tune, but he still sings.

"_The Road goes ever on and on_

_Down from the door where it began._

_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_

_And I must follow, if I can,_

_Pursuing it with eager feet,_

_Until it joins some larger way_

_Where many paths and errands meet._

_And whither then? I cannot say_."

I've never heard this one before. It isn't something we sing in 4, but I can tell it's not supposed to be a sad song. It's an adventure song. For travelers and wanders. But sitting in this horrible place, waiting for the end, it's heartbreaking and I know it isn't for me. It's for Zeke. To make him brave for the last great adventure. I squeeze his hand back one last time.

The cannon sounds.


	13. Endgame

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,904

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Continuing thanks to you all for your comments and support I love hearing what you have to say! Thanks everyone!

**Warning!** This chapter contains some decently graphic violence (at least for me), more or less throughout. It is the end of the Games after all. If that bothers you, I apologize and encourage you skip over the worst of it.

_**13 – Endgame**_

It's a bad night.

After Girl 5 and the croc-mutts. After Zeke.

It's just me again in my little metal cubby and it has never felt so empty. I shake and snuffle as I wring out my socks and lay out my clothes to dry. I choke down a cracker and a strip of jerky. I curl into the sleeping bag after the faces of the fallen flash in the sky and sob.

It's foolish. A waste of energy and a distraction from my surroundings.

I don't care. Like the first night on the train, I can't control the wracking sobs and snuffling wails. I hold onto the small metal cube Thom sent like a child's security blanket, the last tangible reminder that someone, somewhere cares even a little about me. I muffle my cries into my woven mat and the material of the sleeping bag. I sob miserably until I wear myself completely out and fall into a terrible sleep full of croc-mutts, faces in the sky, dying Zekes and haunting adventure songs.

It's a light sleep and I wake at the sound of a cannon just before sunrise.

_Three_.

Pentheus, probably Flynn because Zeke had said something about getting a hit in on Lace, and me.

There's a awful feeling of triumph at the sound and the knowledge that I am almost home. It's a welcome relief from the grief and terror that's been plaguing me all evening, but I still get a shot of guilt too.

_I'm pleased to learn that someone has died_.

I'm turning into some horrible Capitol-created monster. I've killed, watched my friends be killed and reveled in the deaths of others. I've become the very thing Gram ordered me not to. The terrible thing Papa fought to stop.

The Capitol has won again.

The worst part of it all is that I can push myself to not care. To not think about it. I can still pack away every awful thing into a far corner of my brain, just like I've always done when something bothers me, and focus on the day's tasks.

Today's task is to go home.

I promised Zeke I would and when it comes down to it, I _want_ to go home. I want tell Zeke's mother how much he loved her. I want to see my own family again. My brothers and my grandparents. Fillipa and Thom and Saoirse, even Minerva Holmes. I want to see District 4. I want to stick my feet in the ocean and sleep in my own bed. I want to listen to Gram's scolding and the sounds of the surf as I fall asleep.

_I want to go home_.

So I swallow my misery. I wipe away the tear tracks and screw on a determined face. I eat a small breakfast of mostly water and a few crackers. I dress in my cold, damp clothes and consolidate my resources.

I'll never be able to carry three packs on my own and there's a fair amount of gear I don't particularly need. The tent from Doil's bag and his short sword stay behind. The rope and my woven bowls stay. I don't need them with three canteens.

I keep what's left of Doil's food and the canteens. I keep the magnesium strip, the matches, my foil blanket, and the sleeping bag. I keep the first aide kit, the parachute and the Capitol medicine. I even tuck Thom's note into my bag, but I leave the metal cube. I keep the awl, the knife, and the slingshot, but I leave Zeke's ax and his hatchet. They're a lot of added weight for tools I don't particularly need.

I loop the compass back around my neck, just to be sure of my position and tuck the awl into my jacket pocket. I roll everything else into the tarp to keep things mostly dry and tuck things into Zeke's pack. The other two, plus my woven bag-basket and the grass mat stay behind. I go ahead and pack the remaining gear into both Doil's pack and my little red one. I tuck them in the deepest corner of the cubby and cover them with the grass mat and some rubble. I don't plan to come back for any of it, but I certainly don't want anyone else spotting it either in case I come back to the cubby.

I spend the morning boiling rainwater. Starting a fire is no small task in the damp, but filling the canteens is easy.

The weather's getting worse and the waters are rising again. There's no sign of the croc-mutts, but I steer clear of the floodwater's edge just in case, moving parallel to the currents some yards off.

When my drinking water's boiled, I hike west, still following the canal. Around midmorning, I hit more flooding. I follow the edge of that south which around noon shoots me back to lake and Pentheus's camp.

The Gamemakers are flooding us in.

They want this over.

_Today_.

Ten days is a decent length for the Games. With last year going on nearly a month and of course the complete disaster that had been Doil, I'd bet money the Gamemakers are ready for this to end.

I don't even bother checking the shore. Instead, I hike back the way I came and tuck myself into a ruined doorway. It's mostly out of the rain and I finish off the last two strips of jerky for lunch. I leave the crackers in the off chance things last a bit longer than I think they will.

When I'm finished with my meager meal, I hike back towards the shore, then north a ways. Back to the flooded canal and familiar grounds. If they spot me here, I'm familiar enough with the terrain and the floodwaters to give myself a good chance at hiding from any pursuers.

When I check the shore from the ruins, both of my remaining adversaries are there. Flynn must have been flooded out or picked a ration-less pack from hoard because he's back on the beach. Pentheus must have gotten a sponsor gift during the night because he's moving like his old Training self. They're duking it out over the supplies and I have a tough time figuring out who's got the upper hand.

Pentheus is the superior fighter to be sure. He's bigger, even after just shy of two weeks in the Arena. He's stronger, more capable with his mace and just about any other weapon he gets his hands on.

But Flynn is faster. Smarter. He's not too terrible with a variety of weapons either and can block nearly all of Pentheus's hits.

I stay hidden. I'm not stupid enough to intervene or join in. Flynn might not kill me with everyone from home watching, but Pentheus certainly would. So I tuck myself into a ruined building where the second floor keeps me mostly out of the rain and patiently watch the fight.

They're getting tired.

Pentheus is breathing hard and moving like his stomach wound is acting up. Flynn misses a block and takes a slice to his shoulder. They're slowing down. Missing opportunities and wasting energy.

When even I can see they're both hurting, Flynn decides he's in trouble. He gets in a dazing hit to Pentheus's face, not unlike the hit Lace gave yesterday and bolts. But instead of running back into the ruins and the cover of the trees, Flynn runs for the flooded canal. Past my hiding spot again with Pentheus on his tail. In horror, I recognize his plan.

Flynn's hoping to get Pentheus somewhere he knows and he's spent his whole life in the water. Flynn must think that even injured, he'll be able to use the currents against Pentheus. So that Pentheus will spend more time and energy keeping his head above the water while Flynn can get in and either skewer him or drown him.

It's a good plan, but with one major flaw. It plays to his strengths and Pentheus's weaknesses, but Flynn doesn't know what's in the water. The terrible croc-mutts that will surly smell the fresh blood from Flynn's shoulder wound. Flynn may be my adversary. May be ready to kill me once he's dispatched Pentheus. But he is still my district partner. Still someone I recognize from school and from town, who, while not my friend, has, even now, never been terrible to me in any way. Flynn does not deserve this death and I cannot stop the shout from tearing its way out of my throat.

"D-Don't!"

But it's too late. By the time my voice reaches them, Flynn is in the water and I can all ready see the huge leathery backs peeking out of the murky gloom. Neither of the boys notice the stealthy mutts, still too shocked to see me. Pentheus just grins hungrily and I realize my mistake.

He'll save Flynn for later. I'm an easy catch.

I don't stick around to see Flynn's fate because Pentheus makes a dash for me. I know what comes next for my district partner. I'd rather not watch. And then, the same adrenaline fueled, self-preservation instinct that got me through my encounter with Doil kicks back in.

I run.

Flat out, as fast as I can. I'm still not in top shape. I slept horribly last night and overdid things yesterday on top of losing my last friend in the awful place. But the adrenaline lets me ignore it. Besides, I haven't spent the afternoon dueling nor am I carrying a dozen small knives and a mace.

I manage to out distance him, but only just. The rain's picking up again and I'm not sure if it's to rise the waters further or to increase the drama of our final confrontations. Possibly both.

Flynn's cannon fires as I run. A touch of sadness cuts into my rush. Flynn was a good sort, for my part. He didn't deserve to be torn apart by giant croc-mutts a thousand miles from home. His folks and his dozen brothers and sisters surly shouldn't have had to watch it. But I don't let the feeling linger. Like everything else, all the other horrible, miserable feelings that have been mounting get pushed to the side so I can focus very, very intently on the task of _not dying_.

I hit more floodwater just beyond the metal cubby. The canals are still rising and low points are filling up, creeping high into the ruins so that I'm boxed in by rubble and water. The rain keeps pouring.

The Gamemakers want us to fight head on.

I whirl around, the awl in my hand. I'm backed into one of the corners created by the deeper puddles and ruined buildings. I'm also just in time for Pentheus to barrel out of the soggy under brush, the raging canal behind him. He's nearing exhaustion, but the thrill of being one death away from home and the adrenalin rush of our chase seem to keep him moving.

"Hello, little mouse." Pentheus snarls. He isn't quite as leering as Doil had been, but he's certainly hungrier. I am not just something pretty to break for him. I am all that stands between him and victory for himself and his district. I am the last obstacle to honor and glory from the Capitol.

"P-P-Pentheus." I try to sound brave, but it's difficult when he's toting a mace and I've only got an awl. The knife and the slingshot _of course_ are both safely tucked in my pack. It had seemed perfectly logical this morning. No good shot for the slingshot and no sheath for the knife made them no good to have out for hiking, after all.

"Surprised everyone, didn't you?" Something smug and confident slips into the snarl on his face. "Making it this far. You should have been dead at the Cornucopia." My voice fails me. He ignores the small cracked sounds from my throat. "But you'll make me an easy victory." Pentheus continues. There's triumph in his voice. "Don't worry, little mouse. You'll have a worthy death." He assures me.

My voice is entirely gone now. Completely lost and I am washed in fear and panic. Worse than that day at the plaza with Doil. I am entirely alone here because this is it. There is no plan. No allies to rescue me. No enemies to distract him. This is what everything has come down to.

Me and the hulking boy with a bloodlust in his eyes in the rainy ruins of an ancient city where croc-mutts swim in the dark waters around us.

Again, I hope my family isn't watching. I'm fairly certain Pentheus wouldn't follow Doil's example, but I wouldn't put it past him to take his dear sweet time carving me up. Actually, I'm quite sure he'd adore giving them a good show of hacking me to pieces. A grand finale for the viewing audience. My family has all ready watched me kill a boy on national television. They certainly don't need to watch my slow and agonizing death.

"Let's go, mouse." Pentheus sneers at me, inching closer as the water behind him creeps in. The crumbling wall behind me keeps me from moving back and I can only hold out my awl to keep him at bay. He finds my attempts at self-defense particularly hilarious and he snorts a menacing chuckle. "That's it? A straight pin? You're almost making this too easy, little mouse."

I'm within range now. Still shaking and still terrified, but that awful self-preservation instinct, the one that wipes away things like morality and reason in favor of just trying to stay alive kicks in behind the fear. I drop my pack as he moves to strike.

Pentheus swings his mace, but I'm faster. Smaller. The heavy weapon buries itself in the ancient brick behind me and I dive down, scrambling out between his legs. It isn't terribly dignified dodge, but I'm small enough for it to be effective. To buy me a little more time, I slam my awl into his left calf as I scramble away.

It works.

Pentheus howls and his stance falters as blood bubbles up around the wound. I tug back my awl and struggle to my feet in the growing mess of mud that the shoreline has become. The fear and panic well up again.

My escape options are quickly running thin and it becomes clear that I'm going to fail at today's task. With water on two sides, Pentheus on the other, this is going to be then end. I'm going to fail Zeke. I'll just get my pick of end. Foolishly, I'm certain, I muster up some sort of courage in between the adrenaline and pick the lesser of the two evils.

I dive into the raging canal.

If I die here, at least it's in the water. Somewhere, if only a little, like home. The current is strong. It slows me down considerably as I struggle upstream, but overall, surprisingly, it's not impossible to manage. I'm immensely grateful I'm not bleeding too. I haven't even a scab left, thanks to the Capitol medicine and the bloodied awl is washed clean in moments. I just hope it enough to get me across to a pile of rubble, large hunks of cement on the opposite shore before the croc-mutts close in.

A splash from behind tells me that Pentheus has decided to pursue me. I don't glance back to be sure and it occurs to me through my adrenaline-fueled panic-swimming that he doesn't know about the croc-mutts. He'd run before he'd seen Flynn's fate and he's so angry, so completely consumed by rage, I can't imagine he's thinking clearly at this moment.

Pentheus shouts and snarls in my direction as he splashes his way towards me. I don't look back and I can't make out much of what he's saying over the rushing of the water, only occasionally something that sounds like my name. I just keep swimming. Keep pushing upstream, away from him and his bleeding leg wound.

If the mutts weren't coming before, they certainly are now.

The leathery back that breaks the water several yeards off to my left sends me into a panic. The sheer terror is so overwhelming I can't even scream. I just keep pushing, swimming harder into the currents, as fast as I can for that glorious pile of cement only yards away.

I hear Pentheus shout again when my fingers, amazingly meet concrete. This time it's in pain. He howls in agony as I haul myself up out of the water and scramble up the pile of rubble. Pentheus is still screaming when I reach the top, panting and still clutching my awl.

The water is blotted in red by the time I finally glance behind me down at the horrible scene. Pentheus isn't screaming anymore. I'm trembling something fierce and my knees give out as the croc-mutts roll, splash and growl. Huge, horrid and cruel monsters, reveling in the red bloom of the floodwaters.

And then the cannon fires.

The _last_ cannon fires.

Somewhere above, but somehow all around me, Julius Flickerman's voice calls out over the sounds of the rain. Over the floodwaters and the croc-mutt growls. Far away, like some sort of dream.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the 10__th__ Annual Hunger Games, Margaret Benoit_!"


	14. Victor

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **1,895

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes: **Continuing thanks to you all for your comments and support I love hearing what you have to say! Thanks everyone! I apologize for the epic hiatus there – work got crazy and then I fled the country. Literally and just in time to pick up a fantastic lung infection which is still giving me fits after two weeks. Needless to say, my holiday has not been conducive to writing. But for now, I'm back again with the continuing adventures of young Mags. Enjoy!

_Chapter Fun Facts_: 'Saoirse', ironically, is the Irish Gaelic word for 'freedom'.

_**14 – Victor**_

A hovercraft fishes me out of the Arena.

It doesn't feel real. It feels to good to be true. A good dream while I rot in the Arena.

But I'm just so _cold_. I'm soggy and soaking and shivering so terribly I can scarcely stand. There are Capitol attendants and nurses and Peacekeepers all bustling around me in the sterile underbelly of the hovercraft. No one speaks to me. They just bundle me in heated blankets. Someone presses a needle into my neck and the lights go out.

I don't know how long I'm unconscious, but when I wake, I'm not in the hovercraft.

I'm in a bedroom. Still stark and white like the hovercraft and the launch rooms, someone has tucked me into a soft bed, loaded down with warm blankets. I'm dressed in one of those thin gowns they used in the prep center, but the bandages over my chest and the IV in my arm say that I'm not in the prep center. And while my bed is cozy and welcoming after ten days on the cold, damp ground, I'm chained to it.

Not shackles, exactly. The straps around my wrists and ankles are padded and soft, but that doesn't stop the panic that wells up at the restraint. I tug at them, testing the strength.

"Its no use fighting them." A voice explains. "They don't want you lashing out in surprise, you see."

A woman is sitting on a chair beside me.

She has been so quiet and unassuming, I'd overlooked her entirely in the wake of the terror that had come with the restraint. She's lovely, my guest. Skin a shade darker than Zeke's had been and entirely unblemished. Soft, loopy curls that tumble down her shoulders in an effortless tangle. Her eyes are round, dark and knowing. She's dressed in a fine linen dress the color of sunshine which somehow is at once drab by the Capitol's standard and outrageous by the District's.

"W-W-W-" I choke out.

"You are back in the Capitol, Margaret Benoit." She tells me. "The Recovery Floor of the Training Center." She explains. "You survived."

"W-W-Where's Thom?" I manage. "And M-M-Minerva?" I ask.

"Thom Argon is sedated." The woman tells me. Her voice is quiet. Far away. "Minerva Holmes is in a meeting." She continues. Something shifts in her face. Like her train of thought has jumped the track and she stares blankly at the wall opposite her.

"W-W-Why is Thom sedated?" I ask. My voice seems to snap her back to the present. The smarts in her eyes snap back and she looks down at me again.

"He is very angry." She says calmly. "They have forbidden him to see you. He punched an attendant and Cobb and Dom had to tackle him down." She explains, as she drifts off again.

"W-W-Who are you?" I ask. She is silent for a painfully long time, just staring blankly at the empty expanse of wall.

"Daisy." She says finally. "I am called Daisy."

Somewhere through all the dreadful memories of the last two weeks, I remember that name. From the opening ceremonies. The District 11 Victor. _Crazy Daisy_, that's what Keepsie had called her.

"W-Why are you here?" I ask.

"Victors take care of Victors." She says as if this explains it. Daisy looks at me fondly at me and pats my forehead. The door is wrenched open.

It's Cobb.

"Dais-" He looks surprised, but thoroughly exasperated with Daisy. "12!" He roars into the hall behind him. "Get in here and get your girl!"

"Loud." Daisy observes distantly. She's staring off at the wall again. Cobb sighs heavily.

"Come on, Daisy Maisy." Cobb's quieter now. Calm. Soothing almost. He takes Daisy's arm and gently pulls her to her feet. Shep appears is the door frame, looking sad and tired, but not intoxicated like he had been the last time we met. Shep pulls Daisy into his arms and steers her away, the door hissing shut behind them.

"I'm sorry about that, Maggie." Cobb says, sitting heavily in Daisy's recently vacated chair. "Daisy's coming off her meds - she wasn't supposed to be here."

Cobb looks younger up close. Not even thirty, which if I think about it, is accurate. But he's tired. Worn out, like he hasn't slept. His goatee is a mess and his scruff isn't perfectly groomed like that night of the parade. It's overgrown and scraggly, like he hasn't so much as looked at a razor in days. His eyes are red and puffy and he's dressed in only two thirds of a very wrinkled three piece suit.

"C-C-Coming off?" I ask.

"Capitol dopes her up to mentor - meds give her some moments of lucidity, but make the fall worse. She's been drifting." Cobb explains. "Do you know who I am, Maggie?" He asks.

"C-C-Cobb." I say. "You're Z-Zeke's mentor." He looks sad for a long moment.

"That's right." He nods. "What did Daisy say to you?"

"S-S-She said I survived." I observe.

"Yes, you did little girl." He smiles kindly at me. "You survived."

"S-S-She said they d-d-don't want me lashing out." I raise a wrist as high as the restraints will let me. "S-S-She said Minerva's b-busy and Thom's sedated." I continue and he nods.

"Minnie should be around when they let her out of that meeting with the Gamemakers. Your stylist too." He explains. "They're holding Thom back."

"W-W-Why?" I ask.

"They want your reunion to be on television." Cobb informs me. "Want _genuine_ reactions." He snorts. "Now I ain't rightly sure where you stand on that whole doomed love story, but it's a hell of a thing Thom's done, so you best go with it. Be just as starry eyed as he is." Cobb sighs. "And I'm sorry about the cuffs." He pats my wrist for emphasis. "Too many of us have caused a scene when we first came to. Heads are still in the Arena, so it's standard procedure to lock us down now. They'll crack 'em off after your evaluation, when Min gets here." Cobb explains. I nod.

"D-Daisy said that V-Victors take care of Victors." I observe. The word feels strange. Almost Wrong. I don't feel the least bit victorious about anything and I'm loath to think what I've actually _won_. A shatter reality like Daisy? Self-imposed social exile like Thom? Substance abuse like Shep and the District 6 Victor? Cobb smiles

"We try, little girl." He tells me. "Can't always, but we do what we can. Most of the year, you'll be back in your District and there'll be plenty of folks telling you they know how you must be feeling, but they don't. Only folks who can ever truly understand are the ones who've been in the Arena themselves and made it out alive." Cobb continues. "So we try to stick it together. Makes things almost bearable." Cobb sighs wistfully. It's strange to see him like this. So understanding. Almost vulnerable. At the opening ceremonies he'd been larger than life, threatening Keepsie and dishing out orders. Now, he just looks like a beaten young man who's failed two more families.

"I-I-I'm sorry about Z-Zeke." I choke out. My voice fails me again at the rush of grief and guilt, but I have to say something. "I should have-"

"Hey, hey, little girl." Cobb strokes my forehead like Daisy did. A soft pat and a brush over my hairline. "Ain't your place to be apologizing. Weren't your fault and there ain't nothing you could have done." He explains.

"B-But-" I begin to protest, but the door hisses open again. A familiar surprised face in a blood red wig pokes around the frame.

Minerva Holmes.

"Oh! _Thank you_ Mr. Cobb." She gushes. I have never seen Minerva so happy. Her face is still pinched in permanent surprise, but she's positively beaming. She's even in a brand new red suit.

"Ms. Holmes." Cobb stands and shakes her hand.

"Thank you for sitting with her." Minerva repeats. "You really didn't have to."

"Course I did." Cobb smiles softly and glances back at me fondly.

"That's very kind of you Mr Cobb." Minerva beams again.

"Not at all, Ms. Holmes." Cobb insists. "Ms. Holmes, Maggie." He nods a goodbye and leaves us alone. When the door has safely hissed closed, Minerva drops into the visitors chair.

"Oh! Maggie darling!" She gushes again. "We are so proud of you!" Minerva isn't crying outright, but she's a little watery. She touches my cheek fondly.

"Minerva?" I ask. "When can we go home?"

"Soon, darling, soon." Minerva pulls herself together. "We've still got the recaps to go. I suspect they'll clear you here in the next day or so and we'll get you back to Saoirse and the Remake Center." She explains. "Everyone just can't wait to see you. Poor Thom's been a complete wreck." She even sounds a little concerned for Thom's well being. I'm not sure what to make of this. Thom must be falling apart at the seams for Minerva to be so, well, _worried _about his condition. But I'm not entirely clear on why he would be such a mess in the first place. Certainly we're friends, or at least something like it. We didn't walk to school together for eight years for nothing, but we aren't what one would call close these days. Not since his own Games. Not since he moved up the beach and stopped looking the rest of District 4 in the eyes.

"Where's Saoirse?" I ask instead. Besides Thom, Saoirse is really the only other person in the Capitol I would want to see.

"Working on your recap interview gown." Minerva explains brightly. "And your homecoming dress! And of course there are all thing things for your Victory Tour to be thinking of!" Minerva clucks happily. "She's certainly got her work cut out for her, our Saoirse!" Minerva sighs contentedly. "Oh, darling girl! We are just so happy to have you back!" She gushes.

I want to be happy too.

I want to be happy that I made it out of the Arena. I want to care about things like Victory Tours and pretty new wardrobes.

But I can't.

Something in other Victors stops me. Something dark and broken in their eyes. The very distinct public facades they wear for everyone but one another and their chaperones. Something about them tells me that what the Capitol doesn't say about the Games is that the Arena isn't even the most terrifying part.

It's the living with yourself afterward.

The lucky ones are your former fellow tributes who will be going home in wooden boxes, not you the Victor. The shaken shell of a person who can never be the same as the day your name was pulled from that jar.

I stew on this while Minerva prattles on about this party and that dress and how excited Thom and Saoirse and the preps are to see me. While she chatters about how thrilling it will be to meet these influential Capitolites and, of course, the other Victors, it occurs to me. What will define the rest of my life. What was it Daisy had said?

_It's no use fighting them . . . they don't want you lashing out._

No, I can't imagine they do.


	15. Recap

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **3,718

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** Just in time for the _Catching Fire _release, welcome back! I _am_ sorry for the epic break – three deaths in the family, plus a last minute grad school acceptance haven't made this year particularly conducive to writing.

A big thanks to all of you for sticking around this long and of course for your comments and support of this piece! I love hearing what you have to say!

_**15 – Recap**_

The second interview dress is stunning.

I've come to expect nothing less from Saoirse. Minerva mentioned once that Saoirse pours all her emotions into her designs. Grief with a touch of rebellion into her pre-Game looks, for example.

This dress is nothing but joy.

She's keeping with the selkie theme, but I have a feeling that's just for the sake of continuity. She's far too happy to produce something so tragic now that the Games are properly over. This gown isn't quite as overt as the other dresses had been, like she's stopped caring entirely about defiance. The silver is so soft it's nearly white. The skirt falls only to my knees instead of the floor, like the interview dress did. It's floating and airy – not unearthly tragic like the Opening Ceremonies, but light like a weight has been lifted. Chiffon, Saoirse calls it. I am given matching shoes nearly as towering as Saoirse's own. No jewelry and only enough makeup to be seen. My hair is back in the expertly styled nest from the before the Games. It has apparently become quite the rage with all sorts of fashionable people here in the Capitol and I am expected to sport it.

I don't even care.

I care about Saoirse, of course. She was the first person from outside District 4 to acknowledge how grave the Games were before I went in, to worry openly about me. She was the first person to hug me and properly cry for happiness that I wasn't dead afterward. But even after the blur of doctors and nurses, fussing preps and ecstatic Saoirses of the last few days, it all still feels like a dream. The nightmares filled with floods and croc-mutts and faces in the sky I have whenever I close my eyes feel more real than any of my waking moments. It's just easier to let them dress me up and drag me around.

Tonight is no different.

The audience is all ready seated when Cobb, Saoirse, and Minerva bring me to the Interview Studio. I am not seated in the audience like we were for the Tribute Interviews. Instead, Minerva ushers us through a smaller door, just outside the studio. A backstage door, into the wings of the stage, full of lighting and television equipment and draperies. Minerva positions me by a set of stairs, leading up to the dais where the Interviews take place.

Julius is all ready onstage.

He's talking to Thom.

Julius is still in a very yellow suit and his bald head has been polished. Thom is looking so handsome and put together I can scarcely believe he's been sedated for most of this week. They're chuckling and chatting casually like they've been up there for a while. The audience laughs and applauds with them.

"He's warming them up." Cobb explains. With Thom sequestered and heavily medicated, Cobb's taken it upon himself to be something of a surrogate mentor. I get the distinct impression it has a whole lot to do with Zeke being my friend and very little to do with me being myself. He's gruff and grumbly like that night of the parade, but I can't help but be grateful. He isn't from 4, but he knows what the Arenas are like. He understands that being a Victor doesn't mean you've won something.

It helps.

"Let's bring her out, shall we?" Julius announces. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the 10th Annual Hunger Games, Miss Margaret Benoit!"

The roar from the crowd is deafening.

"Follow Thom's lead." Cobb tells me as Saoirse gives my skirt a final fluff. "Go give that boy a hug. Tears are good too." Cobb pats my shoulder encouragingly before giving me a light shove in the direction of the stairs. I stumble up them, tripping in the heels Saoirse has me in.

No one seems to care.

Thom meets me half way to the couch. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my hair while the crowd comes apart.

"Play along, Mags." He hisses into my ear. He does not sound like he's been medicated lately. He sounds like his usual scowling self. It makes me feel like nothing has changed, even though nothing will ever be the same. "Tear up, if you can manage it." He doesn't have to tell me so. I'm so relieved to see him, someone from home, being just as he was in the part of my life that has distinctly become "Before". I can feel the tears prick in my eyes. I go kind of limp and snuffle into the crook of his neck, clutching pitifully at his shoulders and his suit jacket. The crowd just _loves_ it. "Good girl."

Thom presses a kiss to my temple as Julius quiets the audience. Thom releases me, keeping a hold on my hands and stepping back to look at me. I wipe at the tear tracks on my cheeks and feel silly and small. Thom's got something between relief and adoration on his face that the crowds love.

Julius beams fondly at us both and waves us onto the couch while the crowds settles down. Thom sits first. He pulls me down besides him so that we aren't exactly cuddled up, but certainly a lot closer than we would sit normally. I can't help but notice that Thom does not let go of my hand.

I have never really appreciated it until this moment, but Thom is a master at playing to the cameras.

Walks the walk and talks the talk, was what Shep had called it. Thom knows exactly when to smile. When to laugh. How to gaze longingly at me. The right things to tell Julius. It's all so effortless.

Especially when compared to me.

I'm still wiping at the tear tracks on my cheeks. I'm not entirely sure if I'm looking overcome or just simpering. I certainly don't trust my voice.

"Maggie!" Julius beams. He isn't using my given name like he did at the first interview. I briefly wonder if it's because he's been told to do so or if it's because that's all Zeke, Badge and Rose called me in the Arena. "It's so good to have you back!"

"T-T-Thank you, Julius." I say. Thom squeezes my hand at the stammer and I cough once to cover it. Julius ignores it and smiles pleasantly.

"Tell us Maggie, did you ever imagine yourself sitting back here as a Victor?" Julius asks kindly.

"N-N-Never." I admit.

"Never?" Julius asks coyly. "Not once?" I shake my head.

"I-I was too busy." I explain. The crowd chuckles. "I-I-I promised too many people I'd do my best to make it back – my brothers and my friends." I explain. "Thom." I add, bashfully. A glance offstage at Cobb and Saoirse says this is the right answer. Saoirse is grinning and shoots me a pair of thumbs up. Cobb smirks approvingly, like it's about damn time someone started listening to him. Julius grins too.

"Thom?" Julius echoes slyly. He wants to hear the love story, I can tell.

"T-Thom always does everything he can for our Tributes –" I explain earnestly. "I-I-I promised him on the train, I'd try just as hard to come back." I explain. I wonder where this coy, talkative creature with my voice has come from.

"Mags keeps her promises." Thom adds, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. "Always has." Julius smiles fondly. The crowd sighs longingly, like this is what they've been waiting for.

"I just . . . Couldn't let him down." I make sure to say 'him' instead of 'them'. Offstage, Saoirse beams and Cobb nods. I'm not doing too terribly. At least, I haven't yet completely shamed myself in front of the nation.

"Well," Julius grins. "I say you certainly didn't!" The audience roars in agreement. Julius quiets them, with a sly grin. "Did she, Mr. Argon?" Thom smiles fondly, his eyes never leaving my face.

"No, she didn't." He says, almost dreamily. Thom's masterful acting boosts my confidence, if only enough to manage a longing look in his direction. The crowd titters. They're eating up the love story and I'm a little impressed they're buying it.

"Oh, Thom." I add for good measure. It's ridiculous how breathy my voice sounds, but Thom grins a dopey sort of grin. In the wings, Saoirse and Cobb look pleased too. The audience, of course, _loves_ it. Julius does too and he smiles again.

"And what are you going to do now that your girl's come back to you safe and sound?" Julius asks Thom. I'm grateful this question goes to Thom. Julius wants to hear happily-ever-after. He wants to hear Victor-Babies. Thom's acting can cover this. I'm not so sure about my own.

"Well, Julius," Thom laughs and looks a bit bashful. His ears even go a bit pink. "I suppose that's up to Mags." Thom looks hopefully at me. I try not to look too shocked. I try to gather my wits and come up with something coy. Something hopeful, with the happily-ever-after Julius wants.

"W-Well," I smile. I know I'm blushing too. "I suppose we'll have to make sure my brothers don't come after you first." The audience laughs. Thom smiles something that's almost his usual smirk. Julius doesn't notice and neither does the crowd.

"I'm sure they can forgive him." Julius grins, encouragingly.

"I certainly hope so." My voice doesn't even waver. I manage another meaningful look at Thom that I hope looks affectionate. Thom squeezes my hand.

"I'm quite certain they will." Julius is beaming, but I get the impression someone in the broadcasting booth is hurrying him along. He keeps smiling, but he changes direction a little less smoothly than I've come to expect. "Now, we'll have to say goodbye to Mr. Argon for the time being." Julius announces and the audience begins to protest. "Because it's time for this year's official Arena Recap!" This cheers up the crowd. There's more cheering and applause. "Thank you, Thom!"

"Of course, Julius!" Thom squeezes my hand one last time, before he stands. Julius stands too. They grin at each other and shake hands.

Thom turns back to me as Julius takes his seat again. He's looking all stars and hearts and babies, like Rose had said. He offers me his hands and I take them. Instead of pulling me up, Tom leans down. He kisses my cheek. "You can do this, Mags. Don't let them see you crack." He whispers, just so I can hear. "Good luck, sweetheart." He says, loud enough now for the microphones to pick up. His starry eyes are back on and the audience loves it. I try to look starry eyed too as he kisses my hands and hurries offstage, waving at the audience and the cameras.

"What a lucky girl you are, Miss Maggie!" Julius grins.

"Thank you, Julius." I smile pleasantly too. At least, I hope it looks pleasant. I'm can be certain, because I'm shaking again. _The Recap._ This is the part of the evening I've been dreading the most. I do _not_ want to see this. The Arena. It doesn't help that with Thom gone, so went most of my confidence.

"Shall we see how talented she is too?" Julius asks the room at large. The crowd roars its approval. The screen behind Julius's head, which had been screening cuts between our faces, switches over to the Games' anthem and the seal of Panem.

This is it.

The Capitol editors begin at the beginning. Dramatic aerial footage of us rising on the start disks. An epic musical score. Cuts specifically to my face and a handful to Zeke's, Badge's, Rose's, and the Careers' faces too. My allies and my enemies. I'm shocked at how difficult it is to see their faces, alive and determined on screen. Then there's the explosion and Girl 9 is gone. Dropped her token and I can't tell if it was an accident or not.

"What were you thinking, there on the disk?" Julius asks, interested. I'm still staring at the footage. At the living faces of my dead friends.

"T-That I couldn't think about it – about being afraid, I mean." I admit, only when I'm sure I won't sob pitifully when I open my mouth. "So I thought about that red pack." I answer truthfully. "And getting as far away from there as I could."

"And did you ever!" Julius chuckles as the gong sounds and the on-screen me fights Boy 5 for the red pack before running flat out for the tree line. The editors have inserted footage of the rest of the bloodbath around the edges so the viewing audience doesn't miss a single moment of the carnage while my onscreen self zigzags through the ruins and the undergrowth. "Now, I'll remind our viewers – you've not seen some of this footage, have you Maggie?"

"N-No." I agree. This isn't as terrible. Well, it _i_s horrible – my dead friends onscreen, fighting for their lives. But I can almost pretend I'm not watching my own Arena. That this is someone else's Games. Of course, the cuts back to my face, terrified and pale as I run out into the ruined city shatter that illusion, but it's easier to manage.

Who ever has edited the footage has made sure to splice the exploits of the Careers in between shots my survival skills. All things considered, for most of the Games, I was a boring Tribute. I wove baskets. I fished. I followed Zeke's orders. I was unconscious. But the Capitol editors have done an excellent job of making the whole recap far more interesting than much of the Games actually were. Lots of Doil moments, to make him particularly villainous. Snippets of the other Tributes' failed survival attempts to make my successes particularly impressive.

Julius peppers me with questions the whole time. Mostly things like, _'What did you think of your Cornucopia haul?' _and _'Where did you learn to weave like that?'_. Practical things. Painless things. I answer them dutifully and my voice doesn't waver. _'That it was just enough.'_ and _'My grandmother.' _He nearly bubbles over when we get to Day Two and my first encounter with Zeke.

This part is nearly unbearable. Seeing them alive, Zeke, Badge, and Rose. Seeing them laughing and joking. I can feel the tears prick. My throat seizes as the on-screen Zeke tries to talk me away from the water. I try to follow Thom's instructions, to not crack.

"How did you _know_?" Julius asks enthusiastically when Zeke tosses me the slingshot. He's keeping positive for the audience and a little, I think, for me. "How could you know it was safe to join them?" It takes me a moment to clear my throat and Julius is patient. Overall, I've not embarrassed myself too terribly. The last thing I need is to choke now.

"He offered me a weapon." I explain. "A weapon he knew I could use and use well. He'd seen me in Training – it wasn't a secret I could do some damage with it. That's trust." I continue. "He was trusting me not to kill him, so I could trust him not to kill me, at least for a while."

"And the others?" Julius asks. "How could you be sure?" He's honestly interested and a little bit impressed. It's not even the malicious sort of interest in the President's or the Gamemakers' voices when they talk about the Games. It's the earnest sort, like Minerva Holmes's honest belief in the mission of the Games. In a horrible sort of way, it's comforting.

Like Julius is on my side too. Even if it's for the wrong reasons.

"I-I couldn't." I agree. "Zeke gave me the slingshot, not the others. I just had to trust them."

They show only enough of Doil's killing spree to get the fear across. They cut out the worst of it. Badge had been right when he'd said Doil had crossed a line. Killing and gore were all fine and dandy, but the Capitol editors drew a line with rape and torture. They don't air the actual footage of his kills, just the screams and the horrified looks on the faces of the Tributes with hearing range. Certainly enough to make him particularly villainous when we set our plan in motion. More than enough to make me look like the great hero.

The editors lay in clips our plan going south before they cut back to my fire. Clips of Phaedra and Pentheus interrupting. The deaths of my friends. And then there's me, looking cold and frightened. Doil looking downright menacing, leering over me. Seeing it without the adrenaline, without the all-consuming fear, makes me ill. I try to keep it out of my face. I try to look stoic, like Victors are supposed to. I still want to be sick as my on-screen self is caught and sliced up before shoving the awl into Doil's throat.

Something must slip into my face, because Julius smiles fondly.

"Close call, this one?" He says and his tone isn't the least bit mean. Just earnest.

"Y-Yes." I say. I have to cough again before I can continue. "I-I knew something was wrong. I knew they hadn't left me on purpose." It's somehow easier to talk about my friends than what I have done. I still want to cry, but talking about their loyalty is much easier than talking about my own guilt. Julius sees where I'm going and takes the lead.

"Even though they were your competitors?" He asks me.

"What D-D-Doil was doing – he – i-it was just so horrible." I say. "T-They – Zeke and Rose and Badge – they were too good to just let something like that happen, even to a competitor." I explain. Julius nods, smiles again. The footage keeps running.

The editors gloss over the three days I was out. Most of it's in a montage with the same epic music from the beginning. Clips of Girls 8 and 11 trying to lure out the Career pack with Zeke getting my sponsor gift and getting me back on my feet. There's some of Pentheus, my new and ultimate enemy, getting a sponsor gift too. Finally the end of the Career pack and my discovery of the croc-mutts.

It all gears up for Zeke's fight with Lace.

_That_ they show. Edited down for dramatic effect, I'm sure, but more or less intact. I'm able to hold it together long enough for my on-screen self to find the mortally wounded Zeke. When he starts to sing, I loose it.

It's the song I hear in my nightmares and there is no way I can hold myself completely together.

It's not as bad as it could be. It's not a proper sob, but I can feel my face heat up. My vision blurs with tears and it must look terrible. Julius notices. He leans in to pat my shoulder while I wipe at my eyes. The audience actually sounds a bit like they're sniffling a little too. It occurs to me that it's not because Zeke is dead, but because it hurts _me_.

"I-I-I'm sorry." I say and I have to cough to clear the lump in my throat. "I-I-It's just – Zeke was my friend."

"He was very brave." Julius agrees.

"H-He did so much for me." I clear my throat again and try to focus on the screen again. Julius doesn't ask anything else and I am grateful.

The footage skims over that last night and the final morning too. They only show enough of my weeping and clutching at the sponsor cube from Thom to make it look like I'm pining for him. There's barely a blip of Lace's death and very little of my hike to the floodwaters. But there's a lot of Pentheus and Flynn's fight.

Like Zeke and Lace's, I'm sure it's trimmed down to make it much more exciting. I'm sure it's been cut and arranged to make Pentheus look particularly hulking and evil too.

"Why did you shout for Flynn?" Julius asks.

"H-He's from home." I explain. "I-I know him from school and from town. H-H-His family lives up the coast from us. Lobstermen." I say. "H-He is – _was_ – a good sort. He was kind. I had to warn him."

"That was very good of you." Julius smiles.

"He was kind." I say again and it's true.

"What about Pentheus?" Julius asks, while the footage moves on to that last chase into the trees.

"W-What about him?" I ask.

"He'd had it out for you." Julius observes.

"I-I-I was the last one standing." I remind him. "T-T-The last obstacle. I d-don't think he liked that I wasn't, well, a _warrior_ like him and that I'd still made it so far." The words are quiet. This evening is quite possibly the most I've had to speak since I was pulled from the Arena. The anxiety and the grief and the effort of holding them in have all started to wear on me and it can be heard in my voice.

"But _you_ still won." The footage has reached its climax now. With Pentheus and my swim across through the floodwaters. The music is particularly dramatic as the croc-mutts close in. I look tragically noble, standing atop the rubble, in the rain and above the flood, awl in hand. Julius smiles at me again. He even sounds a little bit proud. I just nod. I don't trust my voice anymore and I'm not sure I can take many more questions.

I'm grateful when the Games' anthem plays again and the footage ends. The audience erupts into more whoops and cheers. Julius beams and tries to settle them down.

"Excellent!" He says and he sounds triumphant. "What a finish! Good show! Last question, Maggie, before we let you off to celebrate." He still sounds like he's a little proud of what I've done. That makes one of us. "You've just won the 10th Annual Hunger Games, you've nabbed the most eligible bachelor in all of Panem – what do you want to do next?"

"H-Home." I say. It sounds more like a sigh than I'd intended, but I don't care. "I would like to go home."


	16. Presentation

**Title:** Awake and Sing

**Author:** A Crazy Elephant

**Summary:** Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

**Category:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Chapter Word Count: **2,829

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** As always, thanks again for reading and your reviews. I'm so grateful you all stuck around this long, even though I disappeared for a while. Thanks again!

_Chapter Fun Facts_: Keepsie's playing with a Rubik's cube.

_**16 – Presentation **_

My final obligation in the Capitol is the Presidential Presentation.

It's a new addition to the regularly scheduled Games viewing, two days after the recap interview. Something they've only added in the last few years, since the Games have become quite the holiday for Capitol. Capitolites like having the extra excuse for a party, Cobb explains.

Like everything else associated with the Games, it is a terrifying prospect.

I won't have to speak. At least, not on camera. I won't have to act out the Tribute-Mentor love story. I won't have to openly lie. I will only need to smile and look happy and well adjusted.

But I will have to meet the President himself.

I will have to stand there and smile. I will have to shake his hand and be pleasant. I will have to pretend that he isn't responsible for my friends' deaths or that a week ago, he wasn't fully prepared to have me killed myself.

I'm not sure I can do it.

The worry torments me. It probably doesn't help that the two days before the presentation are filled with people telling me how wonderful I am. How I will dazzle the President and the nation as I am stuffed into various outfits and forced into photo shoots. To make matters worse, I'm hardly eating and I scarcely sleep. The usual Capitol fare is still too much for my stomach after two weeks of starvation and blood loss, but even the small, bland portions I receive do not sit well. Sleep has boiled down to few hours here and there, if I'm lucky, and those are ravaged by nightmares.

It's miserable.

The one thing that makes it all easier to manage is that Thom has been returned to us. I'm still not sure if we're properly friends, but having him around is like a promise of home. It's like hope.

Thom isn't his usual self, not like he was at the recap interview. He isn't talking much either, not to anyone. He is, however, back in our District suite again and unlike before the Games, he actually stays there. He doesn't go out at night and he doesn't wake up in the morning looking like something the cat dragged in. In fact, despite being unusually quiet, he looks better than I've seen him in a long time. He's almost _pleasant_ at meals, even to Minerva. Otherwise, he just sits in on whatever dress fitting or photo shoot I'm being subjected to and looks honestly, well, _happy_. He lets Cobb or Keepsie or Shep or one of the others play mentor with me, with an occasional comment that's not even laced with too much snark.

Thom's almost, _almost_ like his old self. His before-his-Games self.

No one else seems to notice and there are plenty of people to talk in Thom's place.

Tonight, it's Keepsie. She's supervising a dress fitting with Saoirse. I imagine, she's also supposed to be giving me some sort of pep talk for the presentation tomorrow, but she's not exactly the most inspirational speaker.

"It's another parade." Keepsie informs me. Her voice is bored, unamused, like she's got a thousand other things she'd rather being doing. "It's a sponsor thing or some such rubbish."

Keepsie isn't paying much attention to what Saoirse's up to, or me for that matter. She's sprawled herself in the corner of the couch of the District suite, feet propped up on the coffee table. I'm standing on a squat little stool in the center of the room while Saoirse pins and tucks the dress for tomorrow. Keepsie glances up occasionally from the colorful little puzzle cube she's been fiddling with to pay us about at much attention as she would a propaganda reel.

"Point is, you won't be in it." She continues. "All you'll have to do is walk onstage after the President makes a speech at the end. He'll shake your hand and put a laurel wreath on your head and tell everyone how lucky we all are to have such a fine young person serving Panem – now, when you're up there, _smile_." Keepsie instructs. "You got to look _thrilled_ you've joined our exclusive club of cripples, manic depressives, and substance abusers. Don't look at the cameras or the crowds, just the President and no waving – he doesn't want the attention drawn away from him." She says, giving the sides of her cube a few more good spins.

"And don't say anything either, unless you are directly spoken too by the President or one of his cabinet lackeys – don't answer reporters questions. Seen, not heard." She's not paying attention anymore and just holds up her cube for inspection. Each nine-tiled side is one solid color now and she takes a moment to enjoy her work, before tossing it to Thom. He's settled on the other end of the couch, watching Saoirse work and generally keeping to himself.

"Have you ever consider motivational speaking as your talent, 'Kip?" He catches the cube and gives the sides a twirl, mixing the colored tiles back up. It isn't a nasty question. It's teasing, like something Danny would say to me. Saoirse stifles a chuckle and winks at me. She thoroughly enjoys the other Victors. "You're wasting your time building microchips out there in 3."

"I missed the boat on that one, Argon. You're so much better at it than me." Keepsie answers dully. She doesn't take his bait. "But you've asked for my help, so you're getting it. Shut your trap. Now – Benoit. Tomorrow." She instructs. "Repeat back to me what you will do tomorrow evening when you get out of that taxi."

"S-Smile. N-No waving. No talking unless the President or a cabinet member ask me a question." I recite, tugging at the neckline of the too-big dress. It's been made to my pre-Games measurements and I've still not put the weight back on. I feel silly in it, not pretty like most of Saoirse's creations. Like a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothing. It doesn't help that both Keepsie and Thom are dressed almost normally while I stand in an evening gown. Thom's sporting his usual collar shirt look, even if the fabrics are Capitol quality instead of District dull. Keepsie's in khaki trousers and a fussy purple cardigan. While they're both light years away from the Districts, they're not even on the same planet as my evening gown or Saoirse, in her puffy green dress and outrageous shoes.

"Top of the class." Keepsie nods. Thom tosses her back the thoroughly mixed cube and she sets back to solving it. "At least someone around here listens to me."

"Only because you never stop talking." Thom teases. Keepsie is not amused.

"Asshole." She shoots Thom a withering look. "Hey – Stylist Who's Name I Can't Pronounce – how's to coming?" Saoirse laughs.

"_Seer–sha_." Saoirse supplies, carefully sounding out the syllables for Keepsie's benefit. Keepsie doesn't look thrilled. "It's pronounced _Seer-sha_." Saoirse smiles. She gathers the bodice of the dress so that I don't have to hold it up. "And we're nearly finished." She announces.

"Good." Keepsie snorts. "You need to sleep or that horrible prep squad will work you over and cake you in make-up to get those dark circles out from under your eyes." She tells me.

"One last bit here." Saoirse tugs at the bodice again, deftly pinning the seams. "There we are – we'll have you all ready to go for tomorrow."

"Thank you, Saoirse." I say, stepping down off the stool.

"Of course, my _cailín_!" Saoirse smiles at me. "Just hang the dress on your door and I'll pick it up for alterations." She explains, patting my shoulder. Keepsie doesn't notice or care what Saoirse's up to. She's finished her puzzle cube again and has tossed it back to Thom.

"Sleep." Keepsie orders. "Seriously. That much make-up plays havoc with your skin. I had hives for two weeks afterwards!" She waves me off as Thom returns her puzzle sufficiently mixed up. She's treating me like a child, dismissed to bed so the adults can talk.

I don't even mind.

"T-Thank you, Keepsie." I say. "Goodnight." I wave at Thom and Saoirse. They smile at me and wave back as I head off to my room.

I try to follow Keepsie's instructions. I change out of the presentation dress and into the silky soft nightgown left for me. I hang the presentation dress and all its pins on the door. I brush my teeth and head for bed.

I try to sleep. I really do. I make a solid effort to fall asleep, but just end up watching the hours tick by on the little clock beside the bed. Like all the other nights before something big, it's useless. My bedroom feels too small, like a cage. My bedding is suffocating.

I don't bother heading to the roof, like I did before the Games. It's too far and I'm too tired. Instead, I settle for the living area. Keepsie and Saoirse have long gone and the room is empty. No Thom, no Minerva, and no attendants.

I'm all right with that.

I climb into the window seat, pulling my knees up to my chest and leaning against the glass. Our suite isn't as high as the rooftop so all the sparkling lights of the Capitol are much closer. So close, I can see some of the detail in the streets far below. The passing trams and cars. The bright advertising screens on the buildings. The laughing people as they walk between shops and restaurants. It all feels far away. A million miles from where I sit, lonely and broken above them.

"Not sleeping?" Thom asks suddenly. I jump at the sound. I hadn't even heard him come in, but there he is, standing beside the couch like he's been waiting for me to look back. He's dressed for bed in soft pants and a thin shirt and looking a bit like I feel. That is, completely wrecked and unable to do anything about it. He comes to sit beside me in the window seat as I shake my head. "Keepsie did warn you."

"I'm afraid, Thom." I admit.

"You should be." He tells me. He sits close, like during the recap, but he doesn't touch me. "It never ends, you know." He says after a pause. "It's not just the Games and the Tour. You'll start mentoring with me – every year, they'll haul us in and expect to hear all about how happy and wonderful everything is." He sounds tired. Beaten. It's the most he's spoken directly to me off-camera since I came out of the Arena. "They let _you_ live out of the twenty-four they sent in to die – they want something back. They always want something back."

"How bad is it?" I ask.

"I can't even begin to explain." He sighs. "I'm sorry, you know."

"For what?"

"Saving you." He sounds sad and far away. "It was selfish."

"It was selfish to help me survive?" I ask.

"It was selfish of to condemn you to this." He waves out at the twinkling lights of the Capitol below us. "Just because I didn't want you to die. You'll never be your own self again. You'll be exactly what they want you to be. Your life is not your own."

"Was it ever?" I ask. "We've lived and died by the Capitol for years – now, we just have to come play pretend for them twice a year too."

"It's not so simple – when I told the whole world I was in love with you, it singled you out." Thom observes. "It put you on _his_ list and made us vulnerable."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"He knows you're important to me – that strategy was a one time play and I used it to save _you_." He says and he sounds rather bitter. I don't have to ask who 'he' is. "It singled you out as special and it puts everyone at risk. You and Danny – the twins, your grandparents, even Fillipa." Thom hangs his head. "He has buttons to push."

"I don't understand." I say and Thom snorts something that might be a wry chuckle.

"Oh, _Mags_." He shakes his head. "Sometimes you're just too damn innocent for your own good, you know that?" He sighs. "Sweetheart – having people you love gives him something to hold against you. Call it an incentive. We do as we're told – walk the walk and talk the talk or bad things begin to happen to people and things you love. It's not just _you_ in the Arena anymore – this is the real game and it never ends."

And then I understand.

I understand why Thom doesn't talk to anyone in town if he can avoid it. Why he stopped speaking to his friends and why he's nasty to pretty much everyone if there aren't cameras about.

They're all a liability.

Someone the Capitol, the President can hurt in order to hurt _Thom_.

To hurt_ me_.

"What do they want from us?" I ask. I'm a little surprised at how far away my voice sounds.

"I don't know." Thom admits, running a hand through his hair. "I know what he usually wants, but I changed the rules when I told them all you were my girl."

"What do you mean?"

"It'll be different." He sounds far away and he doesn't answer the question. I don't understand. "The public won't want to see us split up now."

"What do you mean, Thom?" I ask again.

"You'll know when I know, Mags." He says and that's still not an answer. He sighs again and shakes his head. "You should sleep." He tells me.

"I can't." I say.

"Me neither, sweetheart." He admits. "But you should. You have to be ready for tomorrow. For all our sakes." Thom says, looking up at me seriously. I'm not entirely sure what my own face is doing. I must look stricken because Thom's expression softens. He smiles sadly and brushes a stray curl out of my face. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." I say, though I'm not sure exactly what he's apologizing for now.

"You'll be fine tomorrow." He says. I can tell he's trying to make up for frightening me. He's trying awfully hard to be kind. Not serious or snarky or teasing. _Kind_. It's strange. Not at all like he was before my Games. Not even like he was before _his_ Games. It occurs to me that I could get used to it.

"Good night, Thom" I say.

"Good night, Mags." He says, standing up to return to his room. I nod dutifully and slide off the window seat too. Thom leans down and kisses my cheek, like he did the night of the recap. There aren't even cameras. "Sleep well."

"You too." I watch him go before I turn back to the window. The lights still feel far away. I'm still sad and broken and even more afraid that I was before. But perhaps, just a little less lonely.

It's enough to get me to sleep. Even if dawn comes quickly and I'm rushed back for prep before the evening's events.

The presentation is exactly as Keepsie predicted. There is a parade. There are sponsors and speeches and confetti and fireworks. I don't have to do anything, but wear Saoirse's lovely dress, which now fits beautifully and smile. I walk up the stairs of the President's platform at the end of the parade route, just as I am told.

I want to be ill.

But Thom's warnings from last night are still fresh and this isn't about me.

It's about everyone else.

I'm glad I don't have to speak. It makes it a little easier to concentrate on holding a pleasant smile when the President takes my hand to help me up the stairs. I don't even have to wave or anything. I have one task only today and I'm going to get through it. I'm quite certain the only thing keeps the pleasant expression fixed on my face and my supper down when I look him in the eyes is that I have only this one thing to worry about.

I keep smiling softly while the President places the laurel wreath on my head and the crowds go wild. I try to look appropriately modest and appreciative while he gives a speech about how lucky we all are that brave young people like me serve our great nation. I try to keep on a grateful face when he shakes my hand.

"You are a _very_ lucky girl, Miss Benoit." He tells me, smiling out at the crowd as we shake hand. "The luckiest girl in all of Panem." I can't quite place the tone of his voice but something about it makes my skin crawl and my stomach drop.

Something that says I am possibly the _unluckiest_.


End file.
